tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-42363477619977808822024-03-05T05:16:04.912-05:00Getting CookedJackiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03237875632169809915noreply@blogger.comBlogger125125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4236347761997780882.post-20935032427676957152013-08-05T17:54:00.001-04:002013-08-05T17:54:40.598-04:00Omnia Causa Fiunt
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Her name is April, and she’s beautiful. Curly wisps of brown hair spring from her
head, she has a button nose that scrunches when she grins and her legs are long
and lean, just like her daddy’s. She
runs, not walks, everywhere, loves to show off her baby doll collection and
when she giggles her white wings bounce up and down, sending clouds of tiny feathers
floating to the ground. She is the proud
president of the Welcome Committee, and greets all of the newcomers to the Baby
Ward with a warm embrace and a loving smile, taking their hand and leading them
to the playroom, saying, “You’re really going to love it here…” At least that’s
how she is in my dreams, my sweet April, and I can’t wait to hold her in my
arms.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Steve met me in the city one hot Saturday morning; I had
been helping a friend pick out her wedding dress, not realizing that down the
street from the dress shop thousands of New Yorkers, gay and straight, were
gathering to celebrate the Pride Parade and the legalization of gay marriage in
the state of New York. “Come on, it’ll
be fun!” I pleaded to him, “I’ll meet you on the corner of 23<sup>rd</sup> and
6<sup>th</sup>.” We found ourselves on
one of the busiest corners of the parade, and climbed the scaffolding so that
we could engage in some serious people watching. It was an afternoon full of excitement, love,
pure joy and inclusion, and I watched with particular interest the straight
couples pushing their young ones through the crowd in strollers. <i>What a
wonderful way to raise a child</i>, I thought to myself, <i>showing them by example what it means to love your neighbor.</i> I said so to Steve, who agreed but gave me
the look I had been getting from him a lot that summer: <i>Babe, don’t get too excited.</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">On the ride home that afternoon on the subway, I sat next to
a young mom carrying her baby in a Baby Bjorn-like front carrier while Steve held
on to the bar in front of me. The baby,
who couldn’t have been more than 6 months old, was excitedly hitting me on the
shoulder and grabbing for my glasses. I
smiled back at the little guy, making those funny faces that we all make to
small children. We got off at Union Square to transfer to the Q, and Steve and
I got separated as we fought through the funnel that led to the stairs. It wasn’t until I felt his hand grab mine and
lead me to the side wall that I gave him a good look, noticing that he didn’t
seem well. He was breathing really
heavy, beads of sweat forming at his brow and he looked me deep in the
eyes. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Oh my God, are you ok?” I asked
frantically, thinking he was suffering from a heat stroke. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Yes…Jackie…I’m ready.” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i>Ready for what?? </i>“You’re scaring me, what’s going on?” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Jackie, I’m
ready to have a baby.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">A month later, I sat in our small bathroom watching the
clock tick through seconds like they were decades and counting the alternating
black and white tiles on the floor. I
could only breathe in short spurts, and I felt like my heart was going to beat
out of my chest. I could hear Steve
pacing the hallway on the other side of the door. I should have left for work fifteen minutes
ago, but work could wait. This was the
day I had marked in my calendar with one word: test. I closed my eyes tight, saying one of those
prayers that don’t actually contain words just fleeting thoughts, and had an
overwhelming sensation wash over me: <i>there’s
no going back now. If you keep your eyes
closed, you can be lost in this moment for as long as you want. The minute you open them, your life will
change forever.</i> I don’t have a good
track record of listening to myself, so I opened them…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I clamored to the doorknob, threw open the door and met
Steve face-to-face in the narrow hallway.
“I’m pregnant!” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The next few days were a blur of blood tests and Google
searches - “Early pregnancy stomach ache”, “Pregnant coffee restriction” and
“How to raise hormone levels”, among many others. My blood tests had indicated that my hormone
levels were really low, too low. My
doctor suggested we be “cautiously optimistic,” a phrase that still sends
chills down my spine. I was convinced
this was just a small hurdle, something that we would look back on in 9 months
with a chuckle and say how silly we were to be so worried. Steve and I spent our evenings whispering gleefully
about names, nursery colors and stroller preferences. We had started a family, and our hearts were
already filling to the brim with love.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">A few days later I received the news from a nurse via phone
call as I huddled in the elevator bank of my office building’s 12th floor - a follow-up
blood test showed that now <i>all</i> of my
hormone levels were really low, too low.
It wasn’t looking good, and she said I should expect to miscarry within
the next few days. “The embryo.” My baby.
Our baby. I still remember the
grey tiles speckled with black dust and the sound of the service elevator opening
and closing behind me. The next day was
August 5<sup>th</sup>, 2011, what I consider to be the worst day of my life. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The traumatic experience that millions of us have gone
through is simplified to two questions on medical intake forms: How many times
have you been pregnant? Twice. How many
children do you have? One. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Steve has a beautiful tattoo on his shoulder: Omnia Causa
Fiunt. Everything happens for a reason. Once you accept that into your life, you
allow yourself the freedom to heal. I’ve
spent exactly two years pouring over in my mind the “reasons” that “everything”
happened the way they did. Those reasons
are endless, and I have to trust in God’s plan.
That doesn’t make it any less painful. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">A few times a week, as I’m changing Josie’s diaper she will stare
up to the far corner of her room with a clear and alert look in her eyes. Sometimes she waves, sometimes she giggles
and sometimes she reaches her fingertips out as if to touch something. A Guardian Angel, perhaps. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Every once in a while as I’m quietly sitting by myself in
the living room, one of Josie’s toys that plays a soft, hypnotic version of
Pachelbel’s “Canon in D” will spontaneously turn itself on. I always smile and close my eyes. That’s my favorite song too, April. </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Jackiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03237875632169809915noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4236347761997780882.post-45884388790470772652013-07-24T00:23:00.000-04:002013-07-24T00:23:40.907-04:00Mom Seeking Mom - Strictly Platonic
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I love my friends.
But as a new mom in a new city, I find that I’m dying to meet other
young moms with similar interests who are available at 11:30 am on a Tuesday to
push a stroller around the park or debate Aveeno vs. Burt’s Bees diaper
cream. Also, it would be nice to put my
child next to another kid and just walk away, knowing that there is another
competent adult nearby to intervene should my little one find the one magazine
within a 10-foot radius, tear off a corner of the cover, moisten it with a healthy
dose of drool and wind it far up her nostril.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I’ve already acknowledged (and am attempting to rehabilitate)
my extreme awkwardness in social situations…but I’m still a weirdo when it
comes to meeting new people. I’m always so
concerned with being cool and approachable and happenin’, that I often waaaay
overdo it and come off as being a tool (evidence: I just said ‘happenin’). Making new friends is really similar to
dating, but I wouldn’t know because that’s something I haven’t actually done in
real adult life. Steve and I have been
together for 8 years, and back when we met, “dating” went a little something
like this:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Hey”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Hey”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Want another beer?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Sure.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i>Hands me a Natty Lite and a beer bong with his
fraternity’s name.</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“You’re hot.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“So are you.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i>Starts making out.</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Ahh, young love is so
refreshing. It’s obvious that I had some
serious game back then, so I’m understandably baffled why, after 5 months in
the Windy City, Josie and I are still ridin’ solo. To be honest, we’re kind of tired of each
other. When she wakes up from her nap, I
walk into her room and she audibly sighs, as if to say, “You again?” Her first full sentence was, “Mom, you’ve
told me that story 8 times already.”
We’re kind of running out of things to talk about, so we decided to beat
the heat wave that’s crushing the country by heading to one of Chicago’s many
fantastic free public pools.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Our public pools run on a very strict schedule, usually in
1.5-hour increments to allow different groups to utilize the cool waters. For example, there’s Day Camp time (lots of
yelling and splashing), Lap Swim time (obnoxious - stop exercising weirdoes),
Teen Swim time (super hormone-y) and our slot, Parent & Tot time. We’ve got three pools nearby, so every
morning I check each of their schedules to find the Parent & Tot time that
best fits within our day’s plans.
Yesterday, we headed over to the huge California Park pool, part of one
of Chicago’s countless parks. Once Josie
has seen the pool, changing her into her swim diaper is like trying to hug a
spider monkey, so I did the best I could and we jumped right in. Cool relief washed over us as we giggled,
splashed and played in the gleaming water.
There was another mom and her
toddler playing nearby, and I immediately felt a bit of chemistry as we
exchanged that brief knowing glance that says, <i>You cool?</i> Yea, you cool? <i>Hell yea, let’s chat</i>. They waded their way over to us, and we made
small talk as our daughters splashed together.
Things were going really well, until she asked me a strange question.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“So, are you an opera singer?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">WTF. I started frantically flipping through the catalogs
in my brain – had she heard my hurried rendition of “Itsy Bitsy Spider?” Does
my new swimsuit make me look like a freckly Lady Macbeth? Or maybe my lip fuzz was starting to sunburn. On second thought, maybe I am a better singer
than I thought I was.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">(Ed. note: This is a perfect example of a situation in which
I am best to just quietly shake my head and slowly swim away.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Oh an opera singer?
Ha ha…um…yea of course…singing is…me...good in the shower! Actually, in
first grade I was in the school choir, but then they let us choose to either
stay in the choir or play the recorder, and I was totally like ‘mom, buy me a
recorder!’ Come to think of it, it was the
first time I felt personal dissatisfaction at the decisions I had made for my
life. I always wondered what would have
happened had I stayed in the choir…would Jay Z have discovered my Gaelic
electro-rap video on YouTube and offered me a $150 million contract to tour the
country with Rihanna? No one ever offers the recorder player a contract. Or a party invite. Hashtag life fail. Ha ha ha.
Ha.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Wait, what? I don’t
even…get it.” she responded.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Oh, no. I’m not an opera singer, why do you ask”…a sane
person might have responded.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">She said, “Oh, I’m sorry.
I only asked because you have <i>Ave
Maria</i> tattooed on your back, I just assumed…” as she grabbed her child’s
arm and ever so conveniently found the nearest ladder, mumbling something about
a sunscreen allergy. See you never. Another one bites the dust.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I’m sure we will soon have an extensive network of mommies
and babies to call on for all of our play date needs, and a year from now we
will have a social calendar to rival Malia Obama. You’re right, I should enjoy these
unscheduled and stress-free dog days of summer, because before I know it my little
nutjob will be too busy to read a book on my lap, have an impromptu dance party
whenever Robin Thicke comes on Pandora or politely listen to my whistled
version of the opening theme of West Side Story. More friends will come with time, but precious
moments are brief. For now, we’ll just
enjoy each other’s company – the ultimate mommy and me playtime!</span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7q7XN68U_fImrytwudq3DGeqtVKu7C-iXEvGI-d14wvhWaeY9GH2XacXY6OdkrV3kta6VTFxAOM80VmXSYfZrnH474sJTxTE8aHCVG1XNCp1M1qWN_nxrqlS7lIYd_ytgFZR2fXB1CC0/s1600/photo7.23.13.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7q7XN68U_fImrytwudq3DGeqtVKu7C-iXEvGI-d14wvhWaeY9GH2XacXY6OdkrV3kta6VTFxAOM80VmXSYfZrnH474sJTxTE8aHCVG1XNCp1M1qWN_nxrqlS7lIYd_ytgFZR2fXB1CC0/s320/photo7.23.13.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Jackiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03237875632169809915noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4236347761997780882.post-44242697732025008222013-06-19T17:22:00.000-04:002013-06-19T17:22:57.726-04:00What Would YOU Do?
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">My life is a never-ending episode of ABC’s social
experiment “What Would You Do?” If you haven’t seen it, it’s a full hour of
bored producers staging controversial situations and recording bystanders’
reactions. Is that middle-aged woman
going to interfere with that mom giving her toddler a Capri Sun? Will that high schooler stop that elderly man
from buying a bootleg version of “Very Best of Cher”? It always involves some sort of commercial
break cliffhanger, and it never fails to leave me on the edge of my seat. Damn you ABC and your quality programming. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Unfortunately, if I had a team of television producers
following me around (call me?), they wouldn’t need to hire actors and write
scripts to portray awkward, uncomfortable scenes of people in situations
requiring a stranger’s interference, because that is my life. All day every day. Awkward.
Intervention. Strangers. I can hear John Quinones in my head…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“What would YOU do if you saw a pale, 20-something mother
with bad highlights spill her latte all over her Old Navy t-shirt while she
tries, and fails, three times to plow her stroller over the front door’s
threshold of her apartment building?” The answer is – nothing. You would do nothing. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Then there’s-<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“What would YOU do if you saw a young mom in loafers
marketed for ‘active seniors’ walking back and forth, back and forth past you
in the mall looking for the elevator, and when she realizes it was right in
front of her and that she was making a scene, pull her phone out and act like
she was looking for her husband?” Again, you would, and should, do
nothing. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I don’t always get overlooked, though. There was a recent incident where a kind, old
Latino man had to help me parallel park my car after I spent 15 grueling minutes
accomplishing nothing but inching it further away from the curb, a curb that
was in front of a yard hosting a family gathering. It was done more out of pity than a sense of
duty, and because traffic had started to pile up.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I’ve realized since moving to Chicago a few months ago that
this is perhaps a city in which I don’t want a stranger’s helping hand. New York City has the deserved reputation of
being a tough, callous sea of anonymous faces, but I think we underestimated
Chicago’s crime epidemic. I had heard
stories of gang violence and drug raids, but for realz - this city is no joke! And while NYC’s crime seemed to be localized
to a handful of neighborhoods, it seems that in Chicago we are never far away
from the breaking news. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">When we made the decision to move to Chicago, we decided
that since the cost of living was somewhat cheaper than NYC, we would ideally
like to cut our rent in half, socking the rest of it away in a savings account
that would some day help us buy our first home.
Great plan, right? We consulted a
real estate agent in one of our target neighborhoods and he assured us that,
regardless of our humble budget, he would absolutely, certainly be able to find
us a nice apartment to rent. Fast
forward a few months when we called upon this agent to help us secure promised
apartment and his response was, “No way, your budget is too low and I will
never, ever be able to find you a home for that much.” WTF, thanks for nothing dude. So we were understandably stressed this past
winter when, on the single day we allowed ourselves to find an apartment and
sign a lease, the appointments with realtors that we had set up were not
producing any acceptable living spaces.
Sure – the pictures were gorgeous!
City living, popular neighborhood, renovated apartment right at our
budget! Well…those pictures seemed to
exclude the kitchen with no refrigerator, or the air ducts that hung so low in
the living area that Steve had to duck to get under them. And then there was the one beautifully
renovated 2-bedroom in Wicker Park that failed to mention that the second
bedroom would also need to be the living room, because the only open space was
turned into a kitchen. Oh yea, and we
would have to trade our queen-size mattress for bunk beds. As that dreary day in December came to a
close, we were FREAKING OUT, and seriously rethinking our decision to leave our
spacious, comfortable and familiar NYC lifestyle. The realtor that we were with said she
thought her partner might have a place available, had we heard of Albany
Park?…follow her to the highway and she would text us the address. Once off the highway, we drove through
tree-lined streets with well-kept single-family bungalows and the occasional
large U-shaped apartment building. We
were let into the second-floor unit and our eyes scanned the gleaming
hardwoods, stainless-steel appliances and granite countertops. When she told us the price, we gave each other
a knowing eye twitch and simultaneously shouted, “We’ll take it!” Within an hour we were turning over a
cashier’s check and signing the papers.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">We knew absolutely nothing about the area when we decided to live here, and there’s no denying the fact that we look different than most
of the residents of this neighborhood – our zip code is known as one of the
most diverse in the nation and hosts both the Irish American Heritage Center
and the Cambodian Association of Illinois, among many others. We’ve always liked surrounding ourselves with
diversity, though, and being able to walk down the street and not feel like we
got caught in the middle of a casting call for the L.L.Bean winter catalog. Considering we found this place practically by accident, we consider ourselves very lucky. Within walking distance of our building, you
can eat Korean, Vietnamese, Japanese, McDonald's (Americanese?), Chinese,
Mexican and Cuban. You can get Starbucks
coffee, smoke a hookah, learn to salsa dance or shop at a store that always
makes me giggle called “Sexy Girls of the Hollywood.” It’s the freakin United Nations over here,
and we’re enjoying experiencing all that our neighborhood has to offer. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">While everyone in this diverse neighborhood has been kind
and welcoming, I don’t know if they were ready for our particular brand of unique. I do view it, though, as a fresh new audience
in front of whom I will surely embarrass myself on a regular basis. I’m proud to say that my daughter will grow
up around kids from countless different countries and backgrounds, yet will
always be known as the little girl with the kooky mom who forgot her headphones
weren’t fully plugged in when she was blasting “Mmmbop” by Hanson. So what would YOU do? You would hopefully do nothing but mock me
silently in the confines of your own mind, unless I also had spinach stuck in my
teeth. In that case, please intervene. </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Jackiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03237875632169809915noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4236347761997780882.post-28648840480542184372013-05-17T15:47:00.000-04:002013-05-17T15:54:33.238-04:00Skin Cancer = Not Good<br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">This increasingly warm weather has me daydreaming about sunny beaches and rum-spiked frozen drinks. Perhaps it’s because I just uncovered a folder on our computer of pictures from our honeymoon in St. Lucia, and after looking through them close to 100 times I have subconsciously scraped, “Shut up, skinny bitch” on our desk with my fingernail. But that doesn’t concern you - back to our discussion about beaches. Luckily, we have a preference for cities that are situated on large bodies of water, so we’re never a far subway ride and/or car trip to a sandy urban getaway. Back in Brooklyn, it was as easy as packing our day bag and hopping on the Q train, and in 20 minutes flat we were arm wrestling “curvy” Russian men in speedos to plant our beach chairs in the last remaining strip of sand without any visible hypodermic needles. God I miss Brooklyn. Our last summer there, however, I was hugely pregnant. HUGELY pregnant. A fond memory comes to mind of our July 4th trip out to Brighton Beach: windblown and sunkissed, we had all packed our things and were assembling on the boardwalk as we each, one by one, rinsed our feet and shook the sand pebbles from our towels. We decided it was a perfect time for a group shot, so we lined up prom-style while a stranger snapped the picture. Then, the dear friend behind whom I was standing alerted me that I was “creeping him out” because I kept “putting my baby on him.” I miss you guys. </span></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWzqYIiJSMkZCDx20KK_j_fiHgl-i4Qlic1N04UOuOSdkH0JDlPgs22IUZB1vv-blTYqqNgLqL8WC9mAuSuexaAlw43e7gR7iUTKAbYiTTdKLZNVtN2POQik3q21hqPxthe6AqHmLF7_c/s1600/528153_10102222369141304_371552320_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWzqYIiJSMkZCDx20KK_j_fiHgl-i4Qlic1N04UOuOSdkH0JDlPgs22IUZB1vv-blTYqqNgLqL8WC9mAuSuexaAlw43e7gR7iUTKAbYiTTdKLZNVtN2POQik3q21hqPxthe6AqHmLF7_c/s320/528153_10102222369141304_371552320_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">With so many upcoming hot days spent outside underneath the bright and burning sun, I implore you to please be sun-safe. From someone whose skin is Swiss cheese from so many moles removed, I wish I had taken my own advice from a young age. Skin cancer is the most common form of cancer, with 1 in 5 Americans developing it in the course of a lifetime (<a href="http://www.skincancer.org/"><span style="color: #021eaa; letter-spacing: 0px;">SkinCancer.org</span></a>). And it so often effects young people - lots of them. I cringe now thinking of the time I bought a membership to a tanning salon in college to “prepare” for vacation. So. Dumb. I have no doubt that those stupid mistakes, plus a large dose of heredity, have played a part in my current relationship with my dermatologist. My former NYC doctor’s son is definitely going to college solely because of how much money I funneled into his practice. Yep - that $29.99 membership to the Levee Laundry & Tan in West Lafayette was totally worth it...SYKE*! </span></span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">(*Yea, I’m still trying to bring that back...your support is appreciated.)</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">When we moved to Chicago, the first doctor I sought to find was a new dermatologist, knowing that I pretty much need to be in the constant care of a credible practitioner. Also, believe it or not, having a baby does nutso things to your skin and many cases of skin cancer have been known to develop during and after pregnancy. I found an awesome doctor associated with Northwestern hospital, and consider myself very lucky to have joined her practice. However, to say she is “thorough” is an understatement. You know that phrase, “where the sun don’t shine?” Well she has obviously never heard that. I’m no longer able to look her in the eyes, but I do feel...properly examined. She decided that two spots on my body needed to be removed, “like...yesterday” so I bit another bullet and had that done. Luckily, I got the call last night that the results from pathology were all clear (phew!), even though she said that of all the patients she saw last week, one of my moles was the one that she was sure was melanoma. Damn. Nothing will make you buy the family pack of sunscreen faster than a dermatologist dropping the ‘M’ word. Thank the Lord it was ok. </span></span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">This doesn’t mean that I will stop playing outside at the park with my daughter or enjoying a leisurely afternoon in the sand, because those are some of my favorite things to do when the weather gets warm. This does, however, mean that we should ALL be a little more sun-conscious, regardless of your family history. If you take one of these tips to heart I will be a happy lady:</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">-Avoid tanning beds. Seriously, this isn’t 2002. They’re not cool anymore, so stop going. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">-Apply sunscreen 30 minutes before going out into the sun. A lot of people wait until they’re on the pool deck to slather it on, but in order for it to be most effective and soak into your skin you need to do it before you leave the house. This also helps you avoid that awkward leg-up-on-the-chair thing...no one needs to see you apply lotion to the back of your thigh. Unless you’re David Beckham, and in that case - please, don’t stop.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">-Find a dermatologist, and actually go see them once a year. They’re not a bunch of weirdo freaks with a skin fetish (barf), they are highly trained and competent doctors who just might spot a spot (pun intended) that saves your life. Trust me, the two days of soreness after having a mole removed is so worth it when you’re faced with one of the yuckiest cancers out there. Real talk: having a hole cut out of you is less unattractive than having part of your leg removed because of an aggressive melanoma. Scars fade, cancer kills. Or I’ll be happy to remove any questionable lesions for a $25 gift card to Coldstone Creamery (PER MOLE). Don’t worry, we have Wusthof knives and I’m handy with a sewing machine.</span></span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">-No one is immune, regardless of skin color. You’re probably saying, “Hey Jackie, quit killing my buzz. I get really tan when I go in the sun, so there’s no way I’m going to get the melanoma that effects people like you, ghost face.” First of all, rude. Second of all, did you know that Bob Marley died of melanoma? I didn’t either, I actually just learned that by Googling “melanoma”. My point is that it can happen to anyone. </span></span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">-Finally, for God’s sake, if you see something “different” growing on your body don’t ignore it. These here edumacated fisishans use a system called “ABCDE”. A mole should be checked if it has one of the following:</span></span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> </span></span></span></div>
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>A- Asymmetry</span></span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>B- Border - uneven or notched</span></span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>C- Color - two or more different pigments within the same mole</span></span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> D- Diameter - cancerous cells usually grow to be larger than a pencil eraser </span></span></div>
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>E- Evolving - any change at all</span></span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">As you see, it’s really not hard to potentially save your own life. Now go and frolic in the sun and sand (or clouds and concrete, because seriously, it’s only May.) And please stop sending me pictures of your moles. That stuff grosses me out. </span></span>Jackiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03237875632169809915noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4236347761997780882.post-19105452389372542842013-05-10T12:27:00.000-04:002013-05-10T12:27:37.856-04:00Remember That One Time I Quit Writing for Two Years?
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Ok, so I owe you an apology. It’s not you...it’s me. You see, things have gotten a little busy. First, we’re riding high in our New York City lifestyle - me: cooking (duh) and attempting to forge my way through my new culinary career; Steve: doing...work...at...work...(??). Then all of a sudden, we have a few glasses of vino, “The Notebook” comes on TCM and before I knew it I was elbow deep in miniature clothes and saying things like, “Honey, is that poop or sweet potato ground into our brand new couch?” So yeah, a lot of things have changed for the two of us, including but not limited to:</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">-We no longer have cable because my husband (who shall remain nameless) decided that he’d rather be a technology weirdo and wait for some dumb internet service to come to our city to provide television. I have to watch “Teen Mom 2” online, and that makes me angry. Also, the original “Teen Mom” ended. I paced the house for a full week wondering if Maci and Ryan were going to work out their issues and raise Bentley with or without the help of lovable yet redheaded Kyle.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">-My mom gave me her awesome old sewing machine. Since then, I am constantly looking for things to repair and/or alter with a little wool felt, a carefully cut applique and polyester thread. On a related note, I am not the one who keeps sewing purple hearts and ribbon to everything in our apartment. That was someone else... </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">-I have two new nieces since I last wrote about the idle dribblings of my life. Nieces and nephews are the best! Adorable little humans who kind of look like you (or your husband), yet you don’t have to worry constantly about whether or not they’re going to write an essay in college about the time you took a toy away from them when they were six months old, unintentionally creating a deep-festering sense of abandonment that can only be quelled with the compulsive hoarding of Coney Island memorabilia. But hey, kids are great. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">-We travelled to Italy! I can honestly say they were two of the best weeks of my life. We went with my parents, my brother and my sister-in-law (pre-children). I’m afraid I wouldn’t be able to do those two weeks of complete heaven justice by attempting to discuss it here. I’ll just say this: whenever I see a picture from our trip, or just Italy in general, I get misty eyed. My previous experience with Italy was at famed NYC market Eataly (which you can read about <a href="http://gettingcooked.blogspot.com/2010/09/friday-91010-level-6-day-1-saucier.html"><span class="s2">here</span></a>), but the real country is a masterpiece in every sense of the word. The food, the people, the rolling hills and orange sunsets. Ah. Maybe some day I’ll make it back...God willing. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">-And finally, I gave birth to a baby girl, moved to Chicago, bought a car, got a washing machine, dryer, dish washer and central air, I became a stay-at-home mom (or if we’re being PC, a “homemaker”), I cut my hair, started a weight-loss program and got a new mug that says “I love you”. Obviously you’re shocked to hear about the new mug, so I’ll let that one marinate for now. But it’s important to note that my life, and my chosen place in this ever-changing world around us, is completely, COMPLETELY, different than it was even a year ago. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">So my dear friends, old and new, I hope you will join me on this next chapter of the “Getting Cooked” saga. Some of you are excited, and were beginning to wonder if I’d given up writing, or worse, lost all my finger tips in a freak Bagel Bite incident (highly likely). Alternatively, some of you are wondering why you visited this page, and are contemplating ways that you can ask me to compensate you for the five minutes you just wasted staring at incoherent black scribblings on your computer screen. If that last one describes you: relax, those black scribblings are called words. You should probably get out more. <i>J/K love you all! Smooches.</i> </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Happy early Mother’s Day!</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">EASY BARBECUE TURKEY MEATLOAF </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Meatloaf is one of those things that I consider a “kitchen sink” meal - you gather all the leftovers in your fridge, throw them into some ground meat and <i>voila</i>! You have a gross pile of raw meat and old vegetables. But after it’s cooked - a delicious and nutritious weeknight meal.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Serves 4</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">You will need:</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">-1/2 bell pepper, 2 carrots, 1/2 red onion or any other remaining veggie in your crisper drawer, all chopped finely or shredded</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">-2 garlic cloves, minced</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">-1 egg</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">-a handful of chopped parsley, or about a tbsp of dried parsley</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">-1 lb of ground turkey</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">-salt and pepper to taste</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">-1/2 cup (or a bunch of squirts) of barbecue sauce, preferably Sweet Baby Ray’s</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Preheat oven to 350 F.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Combine the vegetables, garlic, egg and parsley in a large bowl by hand. Mix in the turkey, salt, pepper and barbecue sauce, making sure all ingredients are well distributed and mashed together. </span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Pile into a small, greased loaf pan and bake for about 45 minutes, or until an internal thermometer reaches 165-170 F.</span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Serve with additional barbecue sauce on the side. </span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Enjoy! </span></span></div>
Jackiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03237875632169809915noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4236347761997780882.post-39181061415025816312011-01-18T10:12:00.004-05:002011-01-18T10:16:41.089-05:00A Love/Hate Relationship<div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >I love New York. Wait, let me rephrase that: I hate New York. But seriously, my relationship with this city is somewhere between murderous and newlywedy. Every day I wake up to the sound of my fantastic upstairs neighbors stomping around in heels. I brush my teeth with overpriced toothpaste, pull my hair into a loose bun and grab my heaviest wool coat, my walking shoes and purple gloves. I lock all thirty-five deadbolts on the front door of our apartment, hold my breath through the smells of other people's B.O. in the hallway and burst out the front door with a large gulp of polluted, construction-dust air. I slip on the 3-day old <em>New York Times</em> plastered to the stoop, falling into dog excrement as someone yells, "You suck!" from a delivery van stuck in traffic in front of me. I wait for a subway car that will be so crowded I'll be forced to stand in someone's armpit and get asked for money (that I don't have) at least three times a day. This is my lady, New York, and although she sh*ts on me pretty consistently I still cannot thank her enough for not spitting me out the moment I set foot in this concrete jungle. The city I love (hate).</span></div><span xmlns=""><p><span class="Apple-style-span" >That doesn't mean I won't be ready to pack up and move out of the Upper East Side the minute our lease has expired, which happens to be at the end of March. We're not yet ready to leave the Empire State, so we're seeking a change of pace in lovely Brooklyn. Am I ready to move to Brooklyn? Yes. Is Brooklyn ready for a pale, sarcastic chef who wears fake pearls and K-Mart moccasins and a faux-hawked math freak who wears ties for "fun"? No; my guess is that we're going to get eaten alive. Do they even broadcast "Jeopardy" in Brooklyn? Remind me to look into that… <br /></span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" >At the end of December I was wound so tight with stress and cold air - I think I yelled at an infant for taking my seat on the subway. I was walking around with a frown on my face, hating everyone that looked at me the wrong way and didn't jump out of my path as I approached. It was bad, and I needed a vacation STAT! Enter my in-laws, living in the gorgeous and ideal Dallas. We were fortunate enough to spend the holiday in Texas with them and my sister-in-law, her husband and my Godson were also in town. It was one big, happy family reunion and we definitely made the rounds, visiting everyone and anyone who would have us. We saw aunts, uncles, grandmas, cousins, brothers, neighbors, toddlers, pre-teens and best friends. We danced, made pasta, drank beer, mingled, ordered pizza, opened presents, took preventative flu medicine, slept in, rode an old-fashioned train, ate candy/cookies/cake/pie, shopped the deals, talked, relaxed…phew. It was wonderful, and I didn't think once about my hectic New York City lifestyle.<br /></span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" >I'm always amazed at how adaptable Steve and I are to our surroundings. As New Yawkers, we're tough, rude and decisive. <em>When do I want my dry-cleaning delivered, you ask? In an hour, but make it quick I'm busy.</em> When we're in Indiana, we tend to convince ourselves that we are happy to be back in the Midwest. <em>OMG, I'm so happy the sun hasn't come out for three weeks. Wow, it feels warmer than 3 degrees Fahrenheit! </em>My favorite transformation, however, occurs in the air somewhere over Tennessee on our way to Dallas, Texas. All of a sudden, Steve looks tanner, his hawk gets a little higher and he sits straighter and calmer. My hair lightens, black mascara magically appears on my lids and I have the extreme desire to buy a Chevy Tahoe. We start throwing in little <em>ya'll</em>s everywhere, and saying things like, "I'm fixin' to get ready to go to the kitchen, honey pie. Can I get you some chips and queso?" When I'm out and about in Dallas, I smile at <em>everyone</em>, and strike up conversations with random "natives." I feel special when someone looks at me like I belong here, like I was born a Texan. Today, I had to return an item of clothing I bought at a Dallas mall over our Christmas vacation.<br /></span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" >"Hi, I bought this shirt at one of your stores in Dallas, I hope that won't be a problem."<br /></span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" >"No, not at all, I'll just make the even exchange."<br /></span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" >"Oh I'm so glad, because I bought it in Dallas."<br /></span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" >"Yep, not a problem, ma'am. Just give me a second."<br /></span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" >"Cool…Dallas…gotta love that Dallas! Doo doo doo…did I mention I bought this in Dallas?"<br /></span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" >She wasn't impressed. Whatever. <em><br /> </em><br /> </span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" >As the week came to an end, we boarded the airplane with 20 pounds of extra luggage and a few less knots in our city-worn muscles. Three hours later we circled into the New York area, descended into LaGuardia Airport, grabbed our luggage and…waited in a snow-filled line for 45 minutes for a taxi. Crossing the Triboro Bridge back into Manhattan, though, was a religious experience: the Empire State Building shone like a beacon in the smog-filled skyline. I could almost smell the burnt street meat, urine-soaked trash piles and cigarette smoke coming from 15-year old lungs. I felt the most myself, however, when Steve got in a fight with our cab driver. Welcome home.<br /></span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" >Since then, the muscle knots have returned and the luggage has been unpacked. What remains, as always does when I travel to Dallas, is a storybook sense that somewhere, far away, exists my own personal sanctum where the weather is mild and you can get chips and queso at any hour of the night. But for now, we're back in New York with some new clothes, a refreshed attitude and a new year to look forward to. 2010 was epic – whatcha got for me 2011?<br /></span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 16px; color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiST1AN7JMvqkGUu68hIKq2BC2drXNFp0IILN5EdpU8zg9zhhTHsrADToRnDRvaNlKM-Q0_qkoDB0ikAGuaAoeV0tomXOO0iUfW1pY909t5urAlccsDKXBzrS9O5A4EZ0ZrPocX1KdmCE/s320/Happy+New+Year%2521.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5563544312417371938" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 214px; " /></span></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >Happy New Year!</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><p><span class="Apple-style-span" >JACKIE'S SWEET POTATO SOUFFLE<br /></span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" >I adapted this from a Food Network recipe that seemed a little…excessive. It was a huge hit at our Thanksgiving table, and will definitely become a staple for years to come. I hope you enjoy it as much as we did.<br /></span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" >Serves 8+<br /></span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" >You will need:<br /></span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" >-3 large sweet potatoes<br /></span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" >-1 cup sugar<br /></span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" >-2 eggs, beaten<br /></span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" >-1/2 teaspoon salt<br /></span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" >-1/2 cup butter, room temperature<br /></span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" >-1/2 cup heavy cream<br /></span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" >-2 teaspoons vanilla extract<br /></span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" >Topping (optional):<br /></span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" >-1/4 cup butter, cold<br /></span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" >-1/2 cup brown sugar<br /></span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" >-1 cup pecans, chopped<br /></span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" >Preheat oven to 400˚F.<br /></span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" >Poke potatoes several times with a fork and bake in oven until very soft, about 45 minutes.<br /></span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" >Reduce oven temperature to 325˚F.<br /></span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" >Scoop potato out into a bowl and whip with a hand mixer. Add sugar, eggs, salt, butter, milk and vanilla. Mix well and put in a greased casserole. Set aside.<br /></span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" >In a food processor, chop butter and brown sugar together until it's a course, sandy consistency. Fold in the pecans and distribute evenly over casserole. Bake for 25 minutes, or until top is brown.<br /></span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" >Enjoy!</span><br /></p></span>Jackiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03237875632169809915noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4236347761997780882.post-57702002726193531132010-12-14T23:11:00.003-05:002010-12-14T23:14:24.750-05:00Therapy…of the Physical Kind<div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >I've had a lot of "free time" lately, but of course I use that term lightly. "Free time," to me, conjures up feelings and scenes from second grade, when we would be granted fifteen minutes of spare time after lunch to do whatever our little hearts desired: transferring our vocab words to flash cards, touching and smelling the new shipment of dictionaries in the library, thinking about ponies, having fake conversations with fake friends…you know, the normal things that normal second graders do. Now that I'm an adult who currently works part time and finds herself with a few unscheduled hours, I'm still trying to replicate that feeling of productivity that drove my days back when I was a miserable office drone. When I'm not working (or preparing for work), I have the wonderful ability to do whatever my little heart desires: organizing my recipes, writing lists about things I need to write lists about, touching and smelling the new shipment of books at the library, thinking about ponies and having fake conversations with my <a href="http://gettingcooked.blogspot.com/2010/11/lucy-in-sky-with-diamonds.html">fake TV friends</a>. I also take an inappropriate number of pictures of my cat, but let's leave that for another day.</span></span></div><span xmlns="" ><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv-hWBIT2LY9Tdts7GDJA2hFRUsHxv58Y1nLQoT3OU528Aj9xuHq8XconwmBV6oLsAb9TMq2lF-D1w_pc0Pl1os0-AEoPFe4UAccuHmJAPbBcy1v5w7UJVeJj1TG_lq0hfMnMYOlPZ5yw/s320/Ellie.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5550757150729390226" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px; " /></span></p><div><br /></div><div>I realized recently that I've been taking extreme advantage of my physical therapist. I've known her for a little over a year now, back when I saw her for an undiagnosed painful wrist, and I now consider her a friend. Now that my problem has been surgically fixed, she's helping me recover and gain back my mobility. The thing that I struggle with, though, is not the excruciating and blinding pain this "friend" puts me through several times a week; it's a word in her professional title: Therapist. </div><p>"Hey Jackie! Come on in, have a seat. How's everything going?"<br /></p><p>"Yea, I'm doing alright, I guess."<br /></p><p>"How are you feeling?"<br /></p><p>"Well…honestly, you know, hmm…I'm feeling a little insufficient. I mean…really…what am I going to do with my life??"<br /></p><p>"…Because of your wrist…?"<br /></p><p>"I mean, no, not really. Am I living up to my own expectations??"<br /></p><p>"You must have misunderstood me…how does your <em>wrist</em> feel."<br /></p><p>"Oh, my wrist is fine. I mean, seriously, what is my main purpose for being on this earth? What is the goal…"<br /></p><p>"Jackie…the wrist…physically, you're here about your wrist, right?" <br /></p><p>"Should…should I lie down?"<br /></p><p><br /></p><p>I think it's something about medical authorities that automatically makes me want to over-disclose, made worse by the fact that I already have a predisposition to over-disclose information about myself to those not in the medical profession. I consider myself to be an honest person, an open book of sorts, but I tend to relax <em>too much</em> in beige midtown medical offices. Then again, I also tend to relax <em>too much</em> when I'm in awkward situations (quiet elevators, locker rooms, interviews, etc.) or when I'm wearing my Magic Velvet Sweat Pants. It's a slippery slope. One minute you're engaging in idle chatter about a recent trip to Target, the next minute you're explaining how you forgot to put the lid on the container for the prescription pads that you use to wipe your cat's vulva (because she's too obese to clean herself) and they're starting to dry out. Those things were expensive! And you can rest assured that I'm going to tell at least five people about it.<br /></p><p>I think the solution is to start having random conversations with random people. That would take up some of my free time and also allow me to tell awkward stories without ever having to see these people ever again. No one wants to tell a good vomit story and then have to face that person again…not cool. Or maybe I could start calling 1-800s routed through India so that I can ask them insensitive questions like, "Have you had Chipotle?" and "Do you speak Hindi in your dreams?" Then again, I should probably just get a hobby. One that doesn't involve cats. </p></span>Jackiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03237875632169809915noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4236347761997780882.post-68393385180083381182010-11-17T11:58:00.001-05:002010-11-17T11:58:55.385-05:00Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds…<span xmlns=''><p>If I could undo one day in my life, the entirety of my twenty five years, one day (nay, one HOUR) stands out in my memory like a large, sore thumb. It was that one day (one hour) that changed my life as I know it and is still causing a shockwave of consequences to this day in the form of medical and physical therapy bills. <br /></p><p>In college, during a fun and joyful trip to the roller skating rink to welcome a new class of Freshmen into our sorority, I was tooling around on my skates when I fell…hard. So hard in fact that witnesses said the impact on my wrists made me pop several feet in the air, only to come back down on those same abused wrists and spine. To make a long story short, I broke my right radius, tilted my tailbone and dislocated my jaw (seriously). The trauma also caused both wrists to choose to develop nasty little cysts deep down in the joint, which, once the rest of my problems were under control, started to give me serious pain. I had my right wrist surgically fixed in college, but my left wrist has been the bane of my existence ever since, flaming up during the most inopportune moments. <br /></p><p>So, after my wonderful and happy graduation from culinary school, I decided that there was no better time than the present to finally fix my left wrist, just in time to ruin my Halloween. I'm just now getting back on my feet/hands, and am able to type sentences with full punctuation, thoughtful candor and insightful wisdom. I've been dying to get back to the keyboard, so here I am. Is this the end of the backlash from that one night? We'll never know…if only I could go back to that dinky skating rink in West Lafayette, Indiana. The worst part of all is that I was 100% dead sober, something the emergency room nurse was quick to confirm. Had I been drunk, this might be a great life lesson. Alas, I'm just clumsy. <br /></p><p>Having surgery on one of your necessary ambulatory joints is not easy…especially when it's the livelihood of my new career. There is an upside, though, in the form of a serving-size chalky combination of Oxycodone and Tylenol – the coveted Percocet. Don't get me wrong, I'm not pulling a Lindsay Lohan here…it was entirely necessary. When a doctor deconstructs your wrist joint to dig out a cyst and the local numbing wears off 24 hours later, you're in a bad place. I felt like a newborn calf, struggling to navigate this cruel world with unsteady and unbalanced limbs, helpless to the elements and losing the ability to wash myself. Every three and a half hours, though, I was rescued from the throbbing pain and delivered to a world where black, silky ponies combed my hair with sunshine and unicorns adorned with crowns of jewels microwaved my Bagel Bites (both of whom might have actually been Steve…I still haven't determined dream vs. reality). I was happy and pain-free without a care in the world, thanks to the joys of modern pharmacology. I saw strange things while pill-popping, things that I wouldn't dare speak of aloud. Things that would make a heroin addict uncomfortable and a psychologist nervous. It was an interesting few days, and I'd like to think I'm a better person after going through it all. <br /></p><p>I stayed in that narcotic-induced purgatory for several days, during which I developed an unhealthy addiction to daytime television. Those first few uncertain days post-surgery, where I was not only unable to complete basic life tasks but was often either fighting a migraine or hazy from the drugs, I struggled to develop a routine that would make me feel like a slightly less waste of flesh. <br /></p><p>9:00am – First alarm goes off. Take pain pill and continue to snooze until iPhone no longer allows it.<br /></p><p>10:05am – 10:15am – attempt to pull on elastic-waistband pajama pants and wide-sleeved t-shirt. This takes longer than I'm willing to admit.<br /></p><p>10:15am – 11:00am – watch "Rachael Ray", all the while thinking of how much I don't like Rachael Ray.<br /></p><p>11:00am – 12:00pm – my favorite time of the day – "The View"! Watch listlessly with mouth agape while they have the exact same argument they had the day before and Joy Behar gets fined by the FCC for calling someone a "bitch" during daytime television.<br /></p><p>12:00pm – 3:00pm – kill time by either spacing out on the couch, watching "Bridezillas" or "I Didn't Know I Was Pregnant" and counting down the minutes until I can take my next pain pill.<br /></p><p>3:00pm – 4:00pm – "Dr. Oz," my man. Learn about five new medical conditions that I didn't know were possible. Begin to become paranoid that I have five new medical conditions that I didn't know were possible.<br /></p><p>4:00pm – 5:00pm – Take another pain pill, which helps me get through an hour of Oprah Winfrey talking about how generous she is and laughing uncontrollably (Percocet) at her antics whilst camping with her best friend, Gayle. She cooked sea bass on a campfire!! Oh Oprah…money has changed you.<br /></p><p>5:00pm – 5:30pm – Think about how much I want Steve to come home from work. Call him five times to ask him what time he's coming home from work. Watch the local news and become paranoid because I live in a city with at least five murders and three apartment fires a day. News is a bummer…luckily I'm feeling good!<br /></p><p>5:30pm – 6:00pm – After receiving the much-anticipated phone call that Steve is on his way home from work, attempt to struggle into a clean t-shirt, change socks and brush hair with one hand. When this doesn't work, wipe drool off face, gargle with Listerine and resume spot on couch.<br /></p><p>6:00pm – 10:00pm – Spend the evening regaling Steve with stories of my daytime television friends. "Oh my God, then Elizabeth told Whoopi to shut up, and we were all cracking up!!" or "When Oprah told me that, I just had to believe it." Try to ignore the deep pity in his eyes, and knowingly accept the final pain pill of the day, which makes me stop dead in my tracks and fall into a restful, kooky dream-filled sleep.<br /></p><p>This went on for a few days, until I was finally confident and strong enough to venture outside into the real world. A trip to the library, for example, became the highlight of my day, and I would plan my eating/sleeping/watching schedule around that one errand. I was soon able to visit with friends again, when the unexpected and dreaded happened. I was happy as a clam, hanging out at a friend's house eating pizza on a Friday night, when I looked down and…I had dripped pizza grease all over my cast. Needless to say, I felt like an irresponsible 10-year old boy and couldn't make eye contact with the nurse as she carefully cut off the padding a few days later. I might as well have spread dirt on it and tucked a few worms in there while I was at it. Pizza grease…on a 25-year-old woman's cast…unbelievable.<br /></p><p>So here I am, recovering nicely and on-track for a fully healed and functional wrist, for the first time in five years. I resumed my normal work schedule, yet am still struggling to break free from the grips of daytime television. Every time I see a commercial for "The View" my heart hurts and the "good times" of those few days come pouring back in a nostalgic and bittersweet wave. The pain of surgery is already forgotten, but the joy of delusional one-sided friendship still exists. Thank you, Barbara, Whoopi, Joy, Elizabeth and Sherry for helping me through a hard time. Thank you. Then again…it was probably all just a Percocet dream… </p></span>Jackiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03237875632169809915noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4236347761997780882.post-52827167464428318772010-10-28T22:49:00.001-04:002010-10-28T22:49:40.740-04:00Monday, 10/25/10 – Level 6 Day 20 (FINAL EXAM)<span xmlns=''><p>I looked to the wall on the right, seeking out the analog clock hanging from the wall. My glasses were so full of grease splatters and sticky fingerprints that I couldn't make out the black hands encased in the clear plastic face that ticked a mere fifteen feet from my station. I wiped my hands on my apron and pulled the frames from my face, right to left, releasing a small drip of sweat waiting to run down the crease of my nose. A quick swipe on a stained towel did the trick well enough for me to make out the time: 8:16 pm. <br /></p><p>Monday, October 25<sup>th</sup> at 8:16 in the evening. I never truly thought I would make it this far, this mythically obsessed-about evening in time when my fate would be permanently sealed. Sure, I spent hours upon hours fantasizing about it: what recipes I would get, how I would feel, what would go wrong. Yet I was never realistic with myself about the brevity of the exam, and what it meant to the past ten months and my future career. And here I was, a full two hours and sixteen minutes into one of the most important nights of my life and I was feeling…calm. Relaxed. Confident.<br /></p><p>I was scheduled to serve the bass at 9:09 pm, so I took a deep breath, letting the hot air reach the deep corners of my lungs, while I surveyed my station. Student #A6: Bass with Sea Urchin Sauce and Green Apple Charlotte. Potatoes: roasted. Baby fennel: cooked. Pickled tomatoes: drained. My next dish, the Charlotte, was supposed to be served at 9:57 pm, so I surveyed my mental checklist again. Ladyfingers: Piped and baked. Charlotte: formed. Green apple Bavarian cream: cooked and molded. Red currant sauce: cooled and bottled. I felt my blood pressure drop, causing my head to feel light while my heart skipped a beat as I came to the best realization of the night…I was practically done. 8:16 pm and I was already on the home stretch. <br /></p><p>Before I knew it, we were being swept down the concrete hallway in numerical order, past portraits of the school's distinguished faculty and towards the deafening sound that only a standing ovation can produce – a creak as the back of your legs push the chair behind you and scrape a dent in the wooden floor, a swish as the paper you were holding sways through the air and hits the tablecloth and the unmistakable clap as one fleshy palm of skin meets another in a calculated impact. I was met at the threshold of the room with a glass of chilled champagne and wide grins from no less than twenty of the city's most famous chefs and food professionals, congratulating us all on a most successful night. It was like the end of a mid-90s romantic comedy, played in slow motion as Prince Charming finally kisses the Princess, and you just know in your heart that they will live happily ever after. <br /></p><p>According to the judges, my fish was cooked immaculately, my sauce was delicious and my Charlotte was picture-perfect. I let my eyes gloss over as they critiqued the other students, taking my exhausted brain to an open-eyed dream where I felt myself reaching, struggling then finally grasping an unnamed prize; a present; a want; an accomplishment. And then it was over, six hours had passed like six minutes, and we all headed to the local watering hole to celebrate and say our goodbyes.<br /></p><p>The next afternoon, amongst our peers, friends and loved ones we each ceremoniously had the toque, the tall creased French chef's hat, placed on our heads and our <em>Grand Diplomes</em> handed to us in shining leather booklets. I was also given a silver French Culinary Institute lapel pin to adhere with pride on my chef's jacket as an indication that I was one of the students who graduated with distinction, with a cumulative GPA of above 95%. <br /></p><p>While a large chapter of my life closes heavy and obvious like the cover of a dusty dictionary, I happily place it back on the shelf, cataloging the good with the bad on the back of my soul. I smooth my hair down, adjust my apron and reach for the next book to start a new story.<br /></p><p>The prince got his girl. The cat got her mouse. And the chef got her toque. Happily ever after. <br /></p></span>Jackiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03237875632169809915noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4236347761997780882.post-37240750667906298872010-10-24T21:47:00.001-04:002010-10-24T21:47:23.156-04:00Friday, 10/22/10 – Level 6 Day 19 (Poissonnier)<span xmlns=''><p>My last day came and went quicker than I could say "fail," and before I knew it my class time at the French Culinary Institute was over. Done. Finito. <em>Fin. </em><br /> </p><p>It's bittersweet; a strange mix of nostalgia for the excitement and thrill of the beginning, a fear of leaving my comfort zone and the sad realization that I might never see some of these people ever again. I am overjoyed at finally being able to reclaim my weeknights and to gain some sort of normalcy in my schedule. But then again, the definition of "normal" is always subjective.<br /></p><p>Since we had some down time, we did basic prep for the final: pickling cherry tomatoes, layering a potato terrine and pureeing the mustard crust for the lamb loins. It's wonderful that so much of the annoying stuff will be done for us on the final, cutting down our list of To Dos drastically. Being the smarta$$ that I am, I approached chef and said, "Chef, what are the odds you'll cook our fish and meat for the final too?" <em>Ha ha ha. Classic. </em>"Jacques-leen, don't be stoopid. Five points off for asking dumb questions." Fair enough, I deserved that.<br /></p><p>Speaking of nostalgia, below are a few of my favorite moments of culinary school, in no particular order and preferably set to Green Day's "Time of Your Life" (acceptable substitute would be "Because You Loved Me" by Celine Dion:<br /></p><p>-<a href='http://gettingcooked.blogspot.com/2010/01/day-3-stocks.html'>The time I turned into a blood-thirsty, cackling vampire of a fishmonger when tasked with separating a fish carcass.</a><br /> </p><p>-<a href='http://gettingcooked.blogspot.com/2010/01/january-18th-2010-school-closed.html'>The time I cried for a week when the Taco Bell around the corner closed.</a><br /> </p><p>-<a href='http://gettingcooked.blogspot.com/2010/02/wednesday-22410-level-1-practical-exam.html'>The time I got really nervous for the Level 1 final…which involved <em>cutting vegetables!</em> Seriously, Jackie? Seriously?</a><br /> </p><p>-<a href='http://gettingcooked.blogspot.com/2010/03/wednesday-3310-organ-meats.html'>The time I ate organs. Pat on the back.</a><br /> </p><p>-<a href='http://gettingcooked.blogspot.com/2010/04/special-celebration-6-month-anniversary.html'>The lobster funeral.</a><br /> </p><p>-<a href='http://gettingcooked.blogspot.com/2010/06/wednesday-6210-level-3-day-20-midterm.html'>The time I returned to NYC after a beautiful weekend in Texas a mere two hours before starting the Midterm exam…and killing it!</a><br /> </p><p>-<a href='http://gettingcooked.blogspot.com/2010/06/wednesday-6910-level-4-day-3-production.html'>The time we broke down and smoked an entire suckling pig.</a><br /> </p><p>-<a href='http://gettingcooked.blogspot.com/2010/06/friday-6410-level-4-day-1-production.html'>The time I got permanent squid ink stains on my uniform, which still remain to this day.</a><br /> </p><p>-<a href='http://gettingcooked.blogspot.com/2010/07/wednesday-63010-level-4-day-12-buffet.html'>The time we put on the hugely successful "Street Food" buffet.</a><br /> </p><p>-<a href='http://gettingcooked.blogspot.com/2010/09/monday-92010-level-6-day-5-pastry.html'>The day I started my first real job in the culinary world.</a><br /> </p><p>-<a href='http://gettingcooked.blogspot.com/2010/10/wednesday-102010-level-6-day-18.html'>The day I became a real, bona fide New Yorker.</a><br /> </p><p><br /> </p><p>My wonderful husband, in a gesture of support and love, came to pick me up from school to walk me home. We had toyed around with plans of getting a drink, going for a slice of pizza or just walking around to celebrate my last class EVER, but we ended up just hanging around outside talking to my classmates. After several minutes of chatting, we decided to head home for the night, so we bundled our coats tighter, picked up our bags and headed down the small alley that leads to the subway. We were walking along, me babbling like Chatty Cathy and Steve quietly listening, when I glanced at two people huddling near the edge of the sidewalk and…IT WAS MY PARENTS!! They had just landed in NYC, flying in to surprise me for my graduation. Of course Steve knew about it, it's been planned for a month now, but I had <em>absolutely</em> no idea. I was blown away, and even asked for a few minutes to process what was happening. I couldn't believe that it was all planned for me, in support of me and just to see me graduate. Our plans for a low-key weekend were not disturbed, and we've spent as much time possible eating pizza, hanging out and venturing to Target for "essentials." I'm trying to do as much as possible to keep my mind off the task I face tomorrow night, but it's hard not to dread the unknown. I know my recipes, I know my procedures and I know proper kitchen protocol. I just don't know what's going to happen, and that terrifies the crap out of me.<br /></p><p>At this time nine months ago I was encountering fois gras for the first time and making salads. Five months ago I was meticulously shearing off the burnt edges of all 50 apple slices on the top of an over-cooked apple tart in Level 3. A month ago I was taking the mock pastry final. Tomorrow night I'll be running around, plating dishes and sending out food to the judges. And this time Tuesday night I'll be Chef Jackie (which is what I'll request to be called at all times, naturally. Hey, I didn't struggle through these past ten months for nothing…) They say time flies when you're having fun. But in addition to that, time flies when you're finally doing what you were born to do.</p></span>Jackiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03237875632169809915noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4236347761997780882.post-86964166914036521052010-10-22T16:09:00.001-04:002010-10-22T16:09:22.134-04:00Wednesday, 10/20/10 – Level 6 Day 18 (Poissonnier)<span xmlns=''><p>On our second-to-last night, we were feeling very confident and in control. It's amazing how far I've come in just the restaurant alone. I remember my first tour through Poissonnier, which happened to be my first four days in a restaurant EVER. It was scary, frantic and uncoordinated, and I was horridly unsure of myself and my skill. Now, as we near the end of Level 6, the last and final level of culinary school, cooking fish and plating the delicate sides seems like second nature to me, and I find myself mentally coaxing the diners to order my dishes so that I can enjoy practicing. I'm trying my hardest to memorize the recipes and components, but only having the opportunity to do each piece once has really been a hindrance. I'm preparing now to attend my last and final class, which luckily falls on a Friday night service, yet I can't help but let my fear for the final overshadow my joy at potentially (hopefully) graduating. It helps that I pass the wall of endless class pictures, taken years past at graduations where the <em>toque</em> is fresh on their heads and the joy of the day is visible on their faces. The hairstyles have changed, but I can look at those new chefs and say, "Hey, if they could do it, then I surely can!"<br /></p><p>During a recent episode of one of my favorite shows, "How I Met Your Mother," the friends tell Robin that there are certain experiences every resident must endure to be considered a true New Yorker: stealing a taxi from someone who needs it more and killing a cockroach with your bare hands, to name a few. Sure, every New Yorker has his/her specific qualifications for what it takes to join their exclusive club, usually involving where your baseball loyalty lies, how many years you've lived in the boroughs and how obnoxious you are on a scale of 1-10. I've considered myself a New Yorker since the moment I crossed the George Washington Bridge in my parent's van right after college graduation, my entire life packed into unmarked boxes and suitcases. I feel like I've finally jumped through the last hoop and gathered the final trophy, though, now that I've experienced the last thing on my list of qualifications. I'm proud to announce that on Wednesday, October 20<sup>th</sup>, 2010 a drug addict drooled on me on the subway. I almost felt honored, like I should shake his track-marked hand and look into his meth-riddled face and thank him. <em>Thank you, kind sir, for helping me feel welcomed</em>. I didn't have time to get grossed out or angry – visions of Mayor Bloomberg presenting me with a key to the city were running through my head. As I walked to work my head was taller, my shoulders were straighter and I felt enriched. It's not every day I'm defiled by a stranger in a public place, yet on those rare occasions I am eager to file it away in my brain under "Days I Felt Like a True New Yorker." <br /></p><p>A very good friend of ours is branching out into the world of photography, and she's already done some amazing work. To commemorate our one year wedding anniversary, Laura offered to photograph us being cooky and awkward in Central Park last weekend, and she successfully captured the essence that is The Lindseys. Read more about Laura and see her beautiful work (as well as our photo shoot) at her blog: <br /></p><p><a target='_blank' href='http://chapaphotography.blogspot.com/'><span style='color:#0000cc; font-family:Arial; font-size:10pt'>http://chapaphotography.blogspot.com/</span></a></p></span>Jackiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03237875632169809915noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4236347761997780882.post-14638887450684740852010-10-20T11:08:00.003-04:002010-10-20T11:13:51.952-04:00Monday, 10/18/10 – Level 6 Day 17 (Poissonnier)<div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">In preparation for our final exam (I'm not even going to go there right now….), chef offered to host some last-minute study sessions for each of the stations, going over how much of each recipe we should prepare and what would likely already be done for us. He said it would start a half-hour before class, so all day at work I was speeding with the goal of leaving early to get to this essential study session. As always, I was running a little behind, so once I walked out the front door of work I bee-lined it to the nearest avenue, convincing myself that if I saw a taxi, I would take it, but if there wasn't a taxi readily available I would just take the subway and potentially be a few minutes late. Sure enough, there was no taxi (a sign from God that I need to save money), so I power-walked to the subway and hopped on a train. Sure, it's only one stop, but on the arriving end I have to walk a good three avenues and two blocks, so I was still concerned with my timing. I practically jumped off the train while it was still moving, ran up the stairs and continued my Olympic power walk through the tourist-infected streets of Chinatown, dodging strollers, ducking under gawkers and long-jumping over panhandlers. I got to school at 5:10pm, and ran up the stairs, throwing on my uniform faster than Superman. By the time I reached the main kitchen, though, something didn't look right. It was empty….one minute after the demo was supposed to start. I set my things down and frantically asked another chef where my chef was. "I think he's in the walk-in refrigerator…" </span></span><em><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Great…I'm the only one who showed up for the study session…extra points for me!!</span></span></em><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> I tore open the door of the walk-in, and there stood chef, stunned into silence. "Chef, are we still having the demo? I can't seem to find anyone!" (</span></span><em><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Nice job passively pointing out that you're the only one on time, yet acting like you cared enough to look for others)</span></span></em><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> "Jacques-leen, ze demo starts in feef-teen minutes. Relax." So it seems I pushed that street artist into oncoming traffic for no reason – I was early! </span></span></div></div><span xmlns=""><p><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The study session turned out to be incredibly helpful, and I'm starting to feel a smidgen better about the impending final exam. I just can't believe I'm almost done with culinary school, and soon I'll be sitting at home with my husband watching "Gossip Girl" and "16 and Pregnant" on Monday and Wednesday nights, and might resume some form of a social life on Friday nights. It's unbelievable how adapted I've become over the last ten months to a schedule of working five days plus three nights a week. It was tough at first, but now it seems almost regular and expected. I'll be celebrating my freedom, that's for sure, by going to bed at 10pm every night and actually waking up on time the next morning. It's the small things in life, but no one ever said I can't still wear my chef's jacket at home. </span></span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqWpsTh24mv6INm3np4TWN64UxQpIv0Xsz3T0fo73M01sZl3_DM9HTn5cRzkH52uOTC6Uw3a-MbO7_8pPhhSCr-rNX2ZhCw7eaK26PPyXOa9OwWIfihQXwJ534mk-5BzFpCo_nJhM74Og/s320/Lv+6+Salmon.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5530145766901140914" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px; " /></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Salmon with Port Wine Sauce, Fennel and Mascarpone Salad and Sweet Potato Puree</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRQUCUh5f3DwehJY9aDhgr96e9wM6y95RHfox3oFLgid1qz5zEGIqg_H9H9iV8pibM4OA4I8KaFq561Jo6GhpYhSQTy0ChQc5SiUWQ4BeDhNYhyiUu0BM6_9CmReN3P1J0Xlpn4i_frm8/s320/Lv+6+Bass.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5530145762614087442" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px; " /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">John Dory with a Sea Urchin/Cuttlefish Caviar Sauce, Spicy Pickled Cherry Tomatoes, Roasted Fingerling Potatoes and Baby Fennel</span></span></span></span></div></span>Jackiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03237875632169809915noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4236347761997780882.post-21724615913477158422010-10-18T09:46:00.001-04:002010-10-18T09:46:32.779-04:00Friday, 10/15/10 – Level 6 Day 16 (Poissonnier)<span xmlns=''><p>I've now finished the first day of the last station in L'Ecole – the fish station, or Poissonnier. If you'll remember, I was actually <a href='http://gettingcooked.blogspot.com/2010/10/friday-10110-level-6-day-10-canape.html'>in Poissonnier</a> for one night back when I was stationed in Canapé, filling in for a fellow classmate. I'd hate to say this, knock on wood, but our recipes are actually kind of easy (gasp!). We have a salmon with a fennel/mascarpone salad, sweet potato puree and a port wine sauce, and also a bass with roasted fingerling potatoes, sea urchin sauce with cuttlefish caviar and pickled cherry tomatoes. They're both delicious, and I'm grateful to be finishing out culinary school in what might very well be my favorite station.<br /></p><p>Poissonnier appeals to me because there is a lot of skill and care required to cook the delicate and fickle fish fillets, and there's a thrilling feeling that the ship could sink at any moment during service. For pick-up, we have all of the sides and sauces ready, so we take the fish, season it, and then throw it in a searing pan skin-side down. The skin crisps, then the whole thing is thrown in the oven to continue to cook the flesh almost entirely. After a few short minutes, we flip the fillet so it's skin-up and baste it with butter and thyme. Incredibly decadent, and it yields a buttery, flakey, crispy fillet, which is then placed delicately on the plate with the various other components. We had a pretty uneventful night, even though it was almost a full house. My partner and I work very well together, and she handled the fish while I handled the heating and plating of the other components. I hesitate saying this, but I might want a fish dish on the final, even if it means having a pastry as my second dish….then again, maybe not. Crap.<br /></p><p>I had my first "Final Exam Fear Countdown" dream last night, in which I was tasked with making a dish from memory and I completely failed with flying colors. In my dream, the dish included chicken breasts and mixed vegetables (most likely the easiest thing my subconscious could come up with), yet I couldn't remember if I had to bake or pan-fry the chicken so I ended up baking them, which was apparently completely wrong. I was frantically trying to bribe my classmates to help me while the proctor took off points for everything, and somehow I ended up with a 55% - meaning that I had failed miserably. I'm (obviously) terrified for the final, and I think the reason is that I haven't had nearly enough time to practice these recipes than I'd like. Theoretically, I could practice at home, but I can't exactly afford to spend hundreds of dollars on duck breasts, kefir leaves, Port wine, bass fillets and veal stock, among MANY other things. I'm just counting on my memory and the five minutes I have before the test to write down as many notes as possible. I'll get through it, but I foresee many more sleepless nights in the coming week…</p></span>Jackiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03237875632169809915noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4236347761997780882.post-75909448724200131742010-10-15T12:03:00.001-04:002010-10-15T12:03:27.516-04:00Wednesday, 10/13/10 – Level 6 Day 15 (Garde Manger)<span xmlns=''><p>So it was our last day in Garde Manger, and I can't stop feeling like I'm walking the proverbial plank, approaching a choppy ocean full of circling sharks and deadly waves. Every FCI alum I've met has told me we'll be absolutely fine – just focus, get it done and you'll be graduating before you know it. I just wish I had a remote control for my life like Adam Sandler in the 2006 classic "Click." I would fast forward through the final exam, my impending wrist surgery and recovery and any time in the future where I have to write a rent check, run for the bus or start to get that spitty phlegmy feeling that says, "You'll be puking in the next three minutes." I would rewind and replay our rehearsal dinner, wedding day and honeymoon over and over, but would always pause on that moment when I burst through the doors at the back of the church and saw Steve's beaming face waiting for me at the end of the aisle. Finally, I would probably record the times he admits, "You're right," keeping them on the DVR for when it needs to be said, again. Anyway, I digress…<br /></p><p>Wednesday's class was…interesting. I was handling the arctic char tartar, which has never been a really popular dish (would YOU order raw fish with blue cheese??) but we had almost a full house, so we weren't taking any chances. We cut up enough fish and made enough Yorkshire puddings for 30 orders. On a night with 75 total covers/diners, that was an extremely conservative estimate. Well, we got slammed, at times getting orders for 5 char, 6 char, 4 char one right after the other, and by 9:20pm we were all out…finite…<em>fin. </em>When chef announced that we'd be "86-ing" the char, the Level 5 students laughed, assuming it was a joke that it was the hottest dish of the night. It was ridiculously busy, and we were constantly requesting "all days," where chef will tally the total number of orders we had to make at each time; it can sometimes be confusing when you receive several orders at once and are putting plates out, so they help you keep track of how many you're supposed to make. It's a daunting task when you request your "all day," and the response is "twelve" or "ten." Yikes.<br /></p><p>I've always wondered what an entire table of diners is talking about when they order the exact same thing. Personally, if there are four options you would think that you'd at least want one of each to sample, pass around and discuss. For some reason, we often get whole tables that order the exact same thing, and I find it to be incredibly boring. A few weeks ago, when I was working the Canapé station, an order came in to Level 5 Saucier for five medium rare steaks for one table. Chef heard this and commented, "Zey moost shoop at IKEA." True dat, chef, true dat.<br /></p><p>Since we had no more orders to make for the night, we cleaned up and assisted chef with some random prep for the next class. I was tasked with making a creamy goat cheese sorbet that the Level 5 students use for their <em>digestif</em>, so I got the ingredients together and began the task. The gelatin needed to be "bloomed," or softened in ice water, so my teammate put it in a bowl with ice then placed it in the refrigerator. I continued melting down the goat cheese and ricotta with milk, sugar and lemon zest, then blended it all, a quart at a time, until it was thin and smooth. Each quart was placed in a special container, then cooled on an ice bath. It took forever, but by the end of class each one was blended, cooled and sealed in its perfect little packages and on their way to the deep freezer. We were packing our bags and getting ready to head out, when my teammate said, "Oh, did you need this gelatin?" as she pulled the bowl out of the refrigerator. No, I just put that gelatin in there for fun. My heart sank, and my other teammates looked at me with daggers. I took a minute to silently chastise myself, then got started on the task of unwrapping the packages, pouring them all into a large sauce pan to reheat them before stirring in the gelatin that was supposed to be there from the beginning. Two of my teammates stuck around to help me out, of which I was massively appreciative. Six hands are better than two, so we ran around heating, cooling, wrapping and freezing, and the whole process took about fifteen minutes. I felt like a huge jerk, but I guess it's not the end of the world. I could have left the bowl of gelatin in the refrigerator for chef to find the next morning, and the sorbet would not have solidified like it should and some poor soul would have to remake it. But I didn't; I kept calm, admitted my mistake and tried to make it right. I hope my teammates aren't too annoyed with me…but then again, I kind of don't care. I have four classes left. FOUR CLASSES LEFT. T-minus four classes. Oh Lord…I'm getting that spitty phlegmy feeling again…</p></span>Jackiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03237875632169809915noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4236347761997780882.post-2145181466240579472010-10-12T22:00:00.003-04:002010-10-12T22:13:07.536-04:00Monday, 10/11/10 – Level 6 Day 14 (Garde Manger)<div style="text-align: left;">It's been a long time, my friends, since I wrote you last. I do indeed have a good excuse, and it doesn't involve illness, laziness or apathy. We've actually been on vacation, cruisin' the Midwest to celebrate weddings, anniversaries, brother-sister reunions and the simple pleasure of driving on the highway with the windows down and the music on. It was an awesome trip, although all four days combined felt like a maximum of 12 hours, and it was over before we knew it. We came home with homemade pumpkin-scented candles in our bags, a belly full of horseradish and beef from our anniversary dinner at St. Elmo Steakhouse and bags under our eyes the size of Texas, but I can honestly say that we spent every single second of the trip enjoying life.</div><span xmlns=""><p><em>On a beautiful day in October</em></p><p><em>Two lovers united before God<br /></em></p><p><em>He asked her to wed to show her<br /></em></p><p><em>He was attracted to more than her bod<br /></em></p><p> </p><p>Indiana is gorgeous this time of year, and on Sunday, October 10<sup>th</sup> the sun shone, the birds chirped and the trees revealed orange, red and yellow leaves, just as they did exactly one year ago when two crazy kittens got married and became one large, immature, silly and obnoxious love monster that can barely take care of one feline and 600 square feet of rented property. But hey, we made it a whole year, and we can't wait for the next 70-ish more.<br /></p><p> </p><p><em>So there they stood, together<br /></em></p><p><em>In front of family, friends and the priest<br /></em></p><p><em>Outside, the beautiful fall weather<br /></em></p><p><em>Inside, a happy and celebratory feast<br /></em></p><p> </p><p>On a much different note, we had packed sparingly hoping to keep our belongings to a small roller suitcase and a carry-on oversized man duffel. It wasn't until our last day there that we realized the unmarked travel bottle we had been using as face wash was actually face lotion…which explains why both of us were breaking out like 13-year olds. It could also be attributed to the 365-day old stale butter cream cake we all enthusiastically consumed, but it was worth it.<br /></p><p><em>They danced from beginning to end</em></p><p><em>Didn't even get a piece of the cake<br /></em></p><p><em>Rejoicing, careful not to overextend<br /></em></p><p><em>For next morning a flight they had to make<br /></em></p><p> </p><p>Back at school, I'm flying through Garde Manger, and an unfortunate by-product of this is that I'm also nearing the final. Our dishes for this station are questionable: Beef Consommé with Fois Gras Dumplings and Poached Chicken (ew), and Arctic Char Tartar with Blue Cheese, Walnuts and a Pan-Fried Yorkshire Pudding. Very random. I learned that it's been several months since I last butchered a fish, and back then I was semi-good and fast. The Arctic Char is a small round fish, and when chef asked me if I needed a quick demo before digging in I politely declined. It took three cuts: releasing the bony collar, separating the head and beginning a slice down the spine, before chef asked me to pause so that he could provide the previously offered demo. Apparently I was hesitating too much and gripping the flesh too tightly. He took my knife in his hands, started on a new fish and had it completely done, fillets separated and bones removed, in under a minute. Damn. I returned to my first fish, but in the end it was painfully obvious which fillets were done by a professional and which fillets were done by the meek student. Service went very smoothly, considering no one wants to order raw fish with moldy cheese or boiling broth with bland chicken when it's 70˚F and sunny outside.<br /></p><p>We are evaluated by three chefs during each level: our main chef, our pastry chef and our Garde Manger chef. The form is the same for each, with the standard fields: Organization, Preparedness, Attitude, Skill, etc, and all three evaluations are combined to form our grade for each level. The pastry chef handed out her evaluations of each of us, and I was shocked to find my grade lower than I had hoped. Was I not always prepared? Did I not act with the utmost respect? Was I not the only one to ever bring the requested special recipe? Am I not a team player? I browsed the scoring, hoping that my missteps would be obvious, yet it seemed like there had been a few points skimmed off in a few different categories. For example, I got a 7/10 for "Serves food at proper temperature and with proper seasoning." The weird thing is that all of the desserts are kept in the refrigerator until served, and nothing in pastry requires any seasoning. I was also curious why I received an 8/10 for "Sets up work station properly." When did I not grab my yellow cutting board, place a wet paper towel underneath it and keep my tools under the counter? I also distinctly remember often being the one to grab cutting boards for my whole group, exactly how a team player would work. Apparently the pastry chef is known for being unfair and biased, so I guess I'm just another unsuspecting victim who had her exceptional grade point average ruined because of one miserable person. C'est la vie.</p><p> </p><p><em>The rest is the history of a beautiful love<br /></em></p><p><em>In which two perfect souls are entwined<br /></em></p><p><em>Yet only one year old, a marriage made of<br /></em></p><p><em>The greatest story of all mankind</em><br /> </p><p><em><br /></em></p><p><em><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRn9dSGhE6klozmySiV-ZLxoh9Nub3-wkDBuUzkFx5FeVMxtGSdVXw9sXXAO8fFdZCaTp86J4FXMnUs_hILaC9tYEdvVdyJFQvMYYdmFBFOlmTRN6RnhTL0Rkci3KhLXSkEXeU5FWJ4_Q/s320/DSC02924.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5527346128492644194" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px; " /></span></em></p><div style="text-align: center;"><em><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; ">Photo-bombed</span></em></div><div style="text-align: center;"><em><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><br /></span></em></div><div><em><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><br /></span></em></div><div><em><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinbjEDObLFJMIKuWDY2zYl40qweh4ZOxdiASU-e8M1qeBnPVO3hgi4CvfdNLcOXW2tMFIzJnZkoLlHue_ihZZsuIl39VUj6cuCee2xT3RCAwrTMUDuO256qvDt3P8cSlQS7aaVVxScX98/s320/DSC02940.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5527346124891561682" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px; " /></span></span></em></div><div style="text-align: center;">Heading out for our anniversary dinner!</div><div><em><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><br /></span></span></em></div><div><em><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><br /></span></span></em></div><div><em><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhd3gHKphViUwXvqUJ45x9cGes3xnxa7xLYbPThBVlNKJHvIB1M0bXkOCm-FeWYkG2-cOo7uglsT0RG12NKZzxcbYeG25B_kipuiQI-h8GxmOebusSCUNF15v72sb0NQHcapSPj9uQ3eiw/s320/DSC02938.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5527346108624104498" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px; " /></span></span></span></em></div><div style="text-align: center;"><em><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; ">Bidding the beautiful bride farewell</span></span></span></em></div><p><em><br /></em></p><p><em><br /></em></p></span>Jackiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03237875632169809915noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4236347761997780882.post-83526238391382892182010-10-06T10:16:00.003-04:002010-10-06T10:20:14.496-04:00Monday, 10/4/10 – Level 6 Day 11 (Canapé)<div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Chef finally took a vacation. He's been known to spend all day and night, 7 days a week, at school, so when he announced that he'd be out for a few days, we were all very, very, horridly and inexplicably sad…yes, very upset…indeed…sad…</span></span></div></div><span xmlns=""><p><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Our fill-in chef was a great guy we had on-and-off in Levels 1 and 2, but he was always kind of hard to read. Things were a little different having him in Level 6, and he thought we were doing great. "I've seen some amazing improvement since Level 2 guys." "Really??" I said. "Um, yeah. But I would hope you've all improved, so…" Oh, I get it. It was our last night in the Canapé station, and we weren't expecting a busy night so we were all kind of looking forward to "taking a break." It's amazing how valuable a few minutes of monotony can become when you're used to going full-speed at all times, those rare seconds of being able to stare off into space or daydream or check Words with Friends on your iPhone.<br /></span></span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Our canapé was my idea, and I was really excited to taste the final product. I picked some ingredients that I thought would be nice together, which isn't saying much because no one had tested it and therefore we didn't really know how it'd work until we were completely done. I decided we would be making roasted butternut squash wrapped in prosciutto and dipped in an herb </span></span><em><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">coulis</span></span></em><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">. I started by breaking down the squash, removing the thick rind and cutting it into bite-size cubes. I tossed them with salt, pepper, olive oil, sage and thyme and baked them until they were just tender. We then wrapped them with thin strips of prosciutto and baked them again until the prosciutto bonded and the squash was fully tender. We played around with the presentation, deciding on trimming the prosciutto scraps so that the squash was a perfect little present, then serving it with a dollop of the herb mix. It was yummy…but was missing something. The squash flavor was being overpowered by the salty prosciutto, and we needed something to balance it all out. Chef had an idea, and ran off to disappear into the store room for a few minutes, emerging with a small black bottle. He had found a rare and extremely expensive balsamic vinegar, so we finished off our cute little squash packages with a small black dot. Perfecto! It still boggles my mind that we'd spend so much time and effort making a little bite-size piece for people to absentmindedly swallow down while they're waiting for their food. It is good practice, though, and I'm glad we resisted the urge to just slap something easy on a plate. It was painful, though, to spend two hours on these miniature delicacies while I could have been relaxing on the couch watching "Teen Mom" for goodness's sake.<br /></span></span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuLdhWWjhns4wB4uSDxNuAR3u5aJTosOjA7y-Jp47KhyphenhyphenVDJaN2hc8OBi_RVf2hYncCMukJV6AdIuTDPBGa8SIl3OaXh-mSZnC8sfwo4j66ysDR52erA1Xa-Ao9xHlQ6PaQNZJ6ZQryZw8/s320/Canape+2.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5524937311197277106" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px; " /></span></p><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn1iifRnabpOysqWc8eWE6cR7K7_2pjGSnsSViHg1OR9JwWa5JZMEo0ZujKfZKmUg7A93WRf-8iCpQ3wlsGFaz1D-HwhIYLtBGbRRRlpEB6iyVhkKb9eb8PjKIQn49FLVJBPjl2jozZb0/s320/Canape+1.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5524937298437298402" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px; " /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Canapé has been pretty boring, so I'm looking forward to moving on to Garde Manger, our second to last station in culinary school…EVER. Weird…</span></span></div></span>Jackiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03237875632169809915noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4236347761997780882.post-57317301820351710672010-10-04T10:26:00.001-04:002010-10-04T10:26:45.190-04:00Friday, 10/1/10 – Level 6 Day 10 (Canapé)<span xmlns=''><p>We're officially halfway through the last level of culinary school, and I am getting increasingly more terrified as the minutes pass. I miss the days in Level 5 when I could just put my head down, blindly execute the recipes and mentally block out chef as he yelled at each of us, moving from person to person to slowly chip away at our happiness. I miss Level 4 even more, though, where our biggest worry was planning and cooking the big buffet for the entire school, and we got to experiment with <a href='http://gettingcooked.blogspot.com/2010/06/monday-61410-level-4-day-5-production.html'>suckling pigs</a> and <a href='http://gettingcooked.blogspot.com/2010/06/friday-6410-level-4-day-1-production.html'>squid ink</a>. Alas, all good things must come to an end, so here I am barreling towards Final Judgment Day: October 25<sup>th</sup>, 2010. <br /></p><p>Friday was a chilly, fall day in New York City, and I wanted nothing more than to curl up in bed and watch a movie (let's be real: I would do that any day regardless of the weather). Alas, I picked myself up and headed to school for another night in the canapé station, where we were planning to make a puff pastry piece with creamed goat cheese and roasted tomatoes. First of all, I HATE goat cheese. I could barely get it down my throat when we had our cheese training class in Level 2. However, every single time I've eaten goat cheese since it's been a surprisingly pleasant experience. Maybe I just needed to get over the first time willies, and can now move on and enjoy the repertoire of cheeses from the goat. I'm not making any promises, but I'll keep on trying goat until this good luck streak is broken.<br /></p><p>Apparently most of my class had the same movie-in-bed idea I had, only they actually acted on it and stayed home. We were averaging about 60% attendance, and I could tell Poissonnier was going to be struggling on this busy Friday night. I was quietly cutting up potatoes, looking forward to a leisurely night in canapé when chef came up to me. "Jacques-leen, you will be in Poissonnier, yes?" Crap. "Um, sure chef, is that where you'd like me for the night?" "Yes, that's what I just said." Fantastic. Normally, I'd be happy for another day in a hard station to prepare for the final. The problem was that I hadn't even glanced at the recipes yet. Ok, it's worse: I didn't even know what fish are involved. I quickly borrowed the recipes and did a cram session in the hallway, trying my hardest to memorize the components and ingredients. I carried my tools to my new station and tried to be the biggest help possible, plating the dishes, grabbing pans and heating up vegetables where needed. <br /></p><p>At one point in the night, right after I had removed my sweaty gloves, aired out my hands and then started to season a few new salmon filets for my teammate to cook, I got a quick, intense itch in my right eye. I subconsciously rubbed it, blinked a few times then went back to my business. Seconds later, once I realized what I had done, I started to freak out. <em>Oh my God, my eye itches. I can feel the bacteria multiplying…I am going to have a horrid infection. Oh crap…oh crap…oh crap, here it goes. I absolutely cannot have pink eye for Jess's wedding next weekend!!</em> I started to hyperventilate and obsess about the fact that I was feeling a slight twinge in my eye every thirty seconds. <br /></p><p>-Pause-<br /></p><p>Before I go any further, I must explain that my eyes and I have a long, tortuous history, one that I would love to soon forget. In high school, I had one goal in life: to be a veterinary surgeon. I was obsessed with big cats (lions, tigers…) yet spent my free time volunteering at the local animal shelter changing litter pans and picking up excrement. One day, when I was "restraining" a "patient" I absent mindedly rubbed my left eye. Minutes later, I was getting sharp pains in my eye and it was getting harder to blink. I went to the bathroom, looked in the mirror…and almost passed out. My eye had swollen to double the size (my actual EYE, not my eye lid), and it was turning an eerie greenish-yellow color. I was dead center in the middle of my advanced awkward years, so I locked the bathroom door and had a mini breakdown about how I could possibly escape from the worried looks and concerned expressions of my coworkers and bee-line it home. I made a frantic phone call to my mom (a nurse), who, although she was trying to mask the urgency in her voice, offered to pick me up from work immediately and take me to the nearest emergency care facility. I was given an allergy shot and some eye drops that stung like heck, but the lasting creepiness didn't wear off once the swelling went down. Until….<br /></p><p>A few years later, my mom and I had planned a trip to a large feline rescue center in southern Indiana, and we were so excited to see the family's tigers, lions and bobcats that roamed their expansive property. I packed my camera, a pair of comfortable shoes and we were on our way. When we arrived, we were greeted by a 400-pound male lion, and I stuck my hand through the fence (with permission) to let him smell my fingers and give me a nudge. We started our tour of the property, but I immediately sensed something was wrong – that sharp pain shooting through my eye had returned. One glance in my mom's direction indicated that we needed to scoot – ASAP – so we said our Thank Yous, hopped into the car and headed to the nearest town to search for something…anything. By the time we found a CVS, my eye had swelled so large my eyelid would no longer fit around it, and I was using lubricating contact drops to keep it from drying out. I put on a pair of the largest sunglasses I could find in my mom's car, and we ran to the back of the store to see the pharmacist. "Hi, may I please speak to the pharmacist?" I quietly asked the cashier. She called him over, he introduced himself and asked me how he could help. Not one to pass over a dramatic opportunity, I looked at him through my black sunglasses and slowly lowered them down my nose, keeping my lopsided gaze level with his. "Sweet Jesus" he muttered under his breath, then, "Guys, come over here and check this out." As the pharmacy attendants ogled my Big Green Eye and said things like, "Never seen this before" and "Submit to medical studies," I was getting anxious. He suggested I use some high-powered allergy eye drops, so we bought a few bottles and ran…quickly…back to the car before someone could call the local news. We fishtailed out of the parking lot, hit the highway and didn't look back. I still wonder if that poor small-town pharmacist went home that night and hugged his children.<br /></p><p>So as you can see, my relationship with my eyes, and the allergens that infect them, has been a matter of worry throughout my entire life. Which is why, when I started getting itchy and blinky after unknowingly rubbing my eyes with fish hands, I started to freak out. Luckily, BGE didn't rear his/her ugly head, but I won't push my luck. Lord knows I need another reason to make my classmates think I'm a weirdo.</p></span>Jackiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03237875632169809915noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4236347761997780882.post-25561865990413228352010-10-01T15:04:00.001-04:002010-10-01T15:04:38.154-04:00Wednesday, 9/29/10 – Level 6 Day 9 (Canapé)<span xmlns=''><p>I've finally moved on to what is definitely the easiest station of the kitchen – canapé. When one sits down for a five-course meal at the French Culinary's restaurant, L'Ecole, you are immediately presented with a small bite meant to excite your palate and make you hungry – the canapé. If you'll remember from Level 3, we got our first introduction to the canapé when we were given a box of ingredients, "Chopped"-style, and told to make a one-bite delicacy from the available items. A canapé can be absolutely anything – a miniature tart, a soup shooter, a piece of crispy bread topped with vegetables…anything. It's fun to let your creativity run wild, and this time we have the entire expansive store room from which to choose our ingredients. <br /></p><p>One of my teammates works at the swanky Park Avenue Autumn restaurant, where she spends mornings cooking hundreds of cranberry waffles for hungry socialites. She had the idea that, since she's already an expert, we could use the cranberry waffle as our base. We "borrowed" the duck loins from Saucier, and sautéed them, then tossed them with a juniper berry/sage/duck syrup (that I made…what what). We painstakingly cut the individual squares out of the waffle (which was actually not sweet, just slightly savory), curled in a sliver of duck loin, then topped it all off with another dribble of syrup and a pinch of bitter micro greens. It was lovely, and everyone was coming by to sample our little delicacy. The flavors mixed perfectly – tart cranberry with sweet duck and bitter greens. It was like a quick explosion of yumminess in your mouth, like a gourmet version of chicken n' waffles (yes…I live close to Harlem). I don't know if any of the patrons actually liked our canapé, but let's face it…I'm not really concerned with that. <br /></p><p>There's a lot of free time in my new station, considering we're only making miniature bites of food that's already done by the time the orders start coming in. All you have to do is put the little babies on a plate and send it up to the waiters. Unfortunately, chef knows we're a group of hard workers, so he asked us to complete some basic tasks for Saucier and Poissonier, who were struggling to keep their heads above water through the night. "Sure," we agreed ignorantly. We spent the whole night meticulously making their potato terrine, breaking down bunches of kale and cabbage, slicing/dicing shallots and peeling pearl onions. The worst part was when both stations finished, cleaned then packed up…yet we were still working on their prep for Friday. I guess not everyone has a strong work ethic. Then again, I come from a career where I was chastised for taking any longer than was needed to run to the elevator, zoom downstairs, push my way through the nearest corner deli to order a sandwich, eat it on the way back up in the elevator and be back at my desk, working harder than ever to make up for the awful five minute break that my irresponsible and hungry (how dare I) self was cocky enough to take. <br /></p><p>It's amazing the changes I've endured over the past year, both professionally and personally. My life in my old career was miserable, as described above, and I constantly felt bad for wanting to go home at night and took on more projects than I could handle simply because I couldn't say no. After quitting, though, I was thrown into the deep pit of unemployment. I wore the same sweatpants every day, rarely washed my hair and developed a shameful addiction to "The View" that I'm still trying to shake. I was then hired into a temporary position with the government, where I was looked down upon for completing projects too quickly and learned that, in order to receive a good review from your superior you had to take the work that was doled out to you and stretch it out as long as possible, all the while making yourself look busy and valuable. I've loosened up the ropes that held me in my "I have no right to ask for vacation time" limbo, yet unfortunately replaced them with "eh, I'll take my hour lunch today because I deserve it" outlook. With my new job, I'm hoping to form myself into something of a happy middle, working actively and efficiently yet still making time to take care of myself. As I told myself the day I quit my old job, when I was wishing I had never set foot inside that bland, stale, sinkhole midtown office or met those supervisors who used sucking the very soul out of my body to further their own self importance, every experience is an opportunity to learn something about yourself. Without that experience, I wouldn't have been miserable at my job, researching creative recipes all day and dreaming about the beautiful ingredients at Trader Joe's, only to realize that all I wanted to do was cook. I also wouldn't have met a former colleague who used to work at The French Culinary Institute, unknowingly fueling my desire to someday make it through the halls of that culinary Mecca. Had I gotten the job that, just a few weeks ago, I was obsessing over and practically having business cards printed, I wouldn't find myself in a happy place with my current opportunity. We might not always understand the daily struggles, but I guess it's the journey that counts. At least someone up there has a plan… </p></span>Jackiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03237875632169809915noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4236347761997780882.post-18378951830722633712010-09-27T10:15:00.003-04:002010-09-27T10:17:13.230-04:00Friday, 9/24/10 – Level 6 Day 7 (Pastry)<div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Since it was our last day (ever) in the pastry kitchen, we were given the opportunity to take a "mock final" to practice the various components and compilations of our two Level 6 desserts. Our chef had a list on the dry-erase board with each of the many parts for both, along with the indication that we must make one full recipe of each (as opposed to multiplying the recipe by two or three to get us through dinner service). She warned us that we must not all start on the same thing at once, so two of us chose the green apple charlotte and the other two chose the German chocolate cake.</span></span></div><span xmlns=""><p><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">It's amazing how fearless I've become in the kitchen, which may or may not be a good thing. I used to pile up the oven mitts to grab a hot pan, and would never have dreamed of turning vegetables in a sizzling pan with my fingers or reaching into a searing hot oven to test the temperature of a piece of meat with my forefinger. I don't know that I've become less afraid, I think I've just accepted that the fate of a chef is to have scarred and gnarled hands and arms, and that the more times I do it the less it hurts. Which is exactly what I was thinking as I took a pan of cream over to our pastry stove to heat it up and continue on my way. The pilot lights were out…again…and as I cursed the fact that I pay five-figures to go to a school without a single working burner I searched for a match to get everything going. I found a used match with no more than three inches of exposed wood to light, so I got the end burning and started running the gas, waiting for the flame to kick in. The handles are unmarked, so I was tinkering with the gas handle on the left, turning it on and off, to try to get a light. My match stick was burning low, so I quickly switched over to the other gas handle to try that out and – WHOOOOSH…it lit. It also took off all of the hair on my left hand and five fingers, leaving little black nubs in their place. It was a little scary, but I've seen people's eyelashes taken clear off so I was happy to sacrifice a few knuckle hairs in place of my femininity. But it did fill the kitchen with that horrible burning hair smell…yuck.<br /></span></span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Although my teammate and I chose to start the apple charlotte first, I decided to make the lady fingers and then the chocolate cake base, so that both could cool and be made and ready for when I needed it. I finished the charlotte, lining the lady fingers up in little ring molds and filling them with the Bavarian cream, and by this time we were pushing 7:45pm. We were working right next to each other, completing the same tasks, when all of a sudden chef got really angry. "How much of the coconut filling are you making??" "Just a full reci….oh." Apparently it was the only recipe on her dry-erase board that was supposed to be halved - in all the hustle and bustle we had failed to remember that small factoid. Which is obviously not the end of the world, although it opened us up for some additional fierce criticism. She continued on to yell at us for waiting so late to start the coconut fillings. I simply queried that, if we were told to finish the charlotte first how could we have known that we should have defied her to get the chocolate cake done first, when her specific instructions were to not work on the same thing all at once, but she didn't seem to understand the inconsistencies in her instructions. She claimed that the coconut reduction was going to take us an hour, and that there was no time to finish the cake and we'd have to use a different pre-made filling. She also reminded us that we had technically failed our mock final, and that if we made this mistake on the real final we'd be scr#w*d. This made me upset, because I was working my hardest all night, keeping myself organized and showing my skill and understanding for the dishes, yet hadn't heard a single positive comment from her. It also wasn't addressed that we would not be making both desserts on the real final, so really the timing for this wasn't accurate. I ignored her charge to use the pre-made filling, and put my coconut reduction on the stove to begin while I handled some other tasks. Sure enough, it took fifteen minutes, maximum, so I quickly cooled it down and slathered it on my chocolate cake, forming the layers and catching up with my teammate, who had used the pre-made filling.<br /></span></span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">It's always disappointing to me when we get yelled at for simply following directions, and I don't think the chefs understand that we aren't mind readers. We've been taught from day one to follow directions and do exactly as our chef says, so after nine months we're pretty used to following orders as directed.<br /></span></span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">It was a beautiful weekend on the Eastern Seaboard, and although it is technically fall the temperatures were pushing the mid-80's. A good friend had been planning an apple-picking trip for several weeks, so we all rented a car and drove up through Westchester to North Salem, New York, home of Outhouse Orchards. Unlike many orchards throughout the country, we were given a mesh bag, an apple-picking pole and let loose into the hundreds of acres of various apple trees to pick to our heart's desire. It was a gorgeous day, and we ate too many apple cider doughnuts for our own good but balanced them out with golden delicious apples picked fresh and eaten under the mid-day shade of an aging tree. It always surprises me how remote and "country" you can get with just an hour drive outside of the franticness that is New York City. It was wonderful to kick off the new season with friends, and we have an entire bushel of apples to show for it. I guess I'll be making a lot of apple tarts this week… </span></span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglogMhyphenhyphen746j3eg_scN9ICJ2dXNABPonmApWoktqMW9ontZsVwI0mb8EMY-NM65hFIHdBFmxCvzIguqiXA0nE9LNa1PLZX_ItuysPOwk3D3GDyu4o1v56zmxW4ORhdE9R4n9lf0ywDPYWw/s320/Apple+Picking.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5521596946523211042" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px; " /></span></p><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><br /></span></div></span>Jackiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03237875632169809915noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4236347761997780882.post-3373968829648377782010-09-23T22:39:00.007-04:002010-09-23T23:02:32.169-04:00Wednesday, 9/22/10 – Level 6 Day 6 (Pastry)<div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: left"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Let's start this Wednesday ditty out with a little riddle. True or False: It is incredibly hard to navigate around midtown Manhattan when every single member of the UN General Assembly is staying at the hotel across from your office building. Answer is to be expected – True. I have seen more detectives, cops, secret service and hired drivers in the past 48 hours than exist on an entire season of NBC primetime programming. They're usually very nice and polite, and will not bother you unless you're being an idiot, but it's important to remember that I can sometimes be an idiot. I was walking down the marble steps in front of my office building the other day, on my way to another long night at school, when I popped in my headphones and absentmindedly slipped past the obvious bright blue NYPD barricades, making my way to the nearest intersection to cross the avenue. Needless to say I was intercepted by an excited and anxious junior agent, likely assigned to his first big gig, telling me that the entire area was blocked off and I'd have to remove myself from the restricted area, walk up three blocks, cross over two then go back down two blocks just to get to the subway entrance that I could almost reach with a long arm. I was of course cooperative, but it made me think a lot about this unstable city I call home. Hundreds of the world's greatest leaders, all gathered in one crowded, dank and often hostile place to attempt to solve the world's problems. One wonders why they didn't pick a remote Caribbean island, with free-flowing margaritas, white sand and All-You-Can-Eat crab leg night. It's an amazing thing, that I could have literally picked up the penny dropped by Ban Ki-moon and breathed in the air expelled by Guido Westerwelle and had no idea who was existing in the same space that I was at that moment. But I guess that's the case on the other 360 days of the year. I doubt anyone would let someone super important within a mile radius of someone like me, but in a city like New York you never really know what's going on around you.</span></span></div></div><span xmlns=""><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Despite the heightened security, I got to school just in time to consume more sugar than my body could process in one night. This obviously led to some internal dissonance, but I powered through the night long enough to make two batches of caramel that immediately solidified so hard around my metal spoon that the handle bent 30 degrees. The caramel was meant to be used to dip grapes, which are then pulled quickly up and taped to the cabinet, leaving a delicate line of curled sugar that, when the grape is inverted on the plate, stands inches above the plate and sways. It's beautiful, but for some reason we were having a really hard time getting the caramel to stay solidified. It kept dripping down the length of the wispy tail we had just created, and was sliding down off the grapes and onto the table. Before we knew it we had a little grape graveyard, and the caramel wasn't looking any better. As we were having troubles apparently we were experiencing a terrible thunderstorm outside, the second in a week, causing the kitchen to be one large, damp heckhole, the worst conditions for dipping grapes into hot caramel that is meant to harden.<br /></span></span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Our pastry chef, one of the proctors of the final exam, claimed that she was tired of students complaining that they never had the chance to make the dessert they had been asked to make for the final, so she now holds a mock final on the last day of the pastry rotation for each group. My last day in pastry will be Friday, so I'll have to make four full plates of each dish in the allotted time, something I'm nervous about having enough time to do. Sure, we have three hours before service starts, but making lady fingers, a green apple Bavarian cream, a layered chocolate cake with coconut filling, chocolate ganache, caramel-dipped grapes and a sour cherry reduction in three hours is going to be a challenge. Pair half of that with a fish dish and that makes for one stressful final exam.<br /></span></span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Some of my classmates were asking me about my new job as we killed time before class. "Jackie, you're the only one of us that will graduate from the French Culinary Institute and actually be called a chef at work." Interesting…interesting indeed. </span></span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family:verdana;"></span></span></span></p><p><span style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; font-family: verdana; " class="Apple-style-span"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5520304371090354802" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2pLF1mAufUEumnTWi3E6Va8S34if5xx10_MN6Lg78Ru4dmAxQJkMNec3LDnXA7pc2ZsvZvtEDpoUQ0sOV_RCvfkoeQjhXp-WwoNhlt5m3FMRMG0GMJmvZNL8oaWUaPsMKcDzt47ifb5o/s320/Lv+6+Chocolate+Cake.JPG" /></span></p><div align="center"><span style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline" class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">German Chocolate Cake with Coconut Filling, Garnished with Caramel-Dipped Grapes and Sour Cherry Compote</span></span></span></div><span style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline" class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></span><span style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline" class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana; font-size: 16px; "><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5520304552369866274" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7QyNWPjJoIvn62j0lvgFzoV00PbrMtRIbgMVWrpdPYnVDO2ccIObH1g34WY4dtD8BZsoPJVK9dGCliFjqJRb6n97YOuVv1q2fdkkx6bEZJBTdXMI5AP9nfTfa2NHFxahGCnsIznLXAW0/s320/Lv+6+Apple+Charlotte+%232.JPG" /></span></span></span></span><span style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline" class="Apple-style-span"><span style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline" class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span><p align="center"><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline" class="Apple-style-span"><span style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline" class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Green Apple Charlotte with Red Currant Sauce and an Apple Chip</span></span></span></span></span></p><span style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline" class="Apple-style-span"><span style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline" class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span><div align="center"><span style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline" class="Apple-style-span"><span style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline" class="Apple-style-span"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB59nihqmSL7k7t-OmR2kUjNjXHTynLCdzGXvOsxDScReo9NScXLbjkbQhKSl91o5hAzuZNuGcjiIThYhd2dpHKXo6VZCbMSjwPKu4ONwf67i68mmVPmv385CUOaKAIV1p6-K-OONAM70/s1600/Lv+6+Apple+Charlotte+%231.JPG"><span style="font-family: verdana; "><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5520304545962092434" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB59nihqmSL7k7t-OmR2kUjNjXHTynLCdzGXvOsxDScReo9NScXLbjkbQhKSl91o5hAzuZNuGcjiIThYhd2dpHKXo6VZCbMSjwPKu4ONwf67i68mmVPmv385CUOaKAIV1p6-K-OONAM70/s320/Lv+6+Apple+Charlotte+%231.JPG" /></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Another variation on the charlotte dish: Green Apple Charlotte with Red Cherry sauce and Red Cherry Sorbet</span></span></span></span></div><div align="center"><span style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline" class="Apple-style-span"><span style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline" class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></span></span></div><div align="center"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: verdana; "></span></span></div><div align="center"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: verdana; "></span></span></div><div align="center"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: verdana; "></span></span></div><p><span style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline" class="Apple-style-span"><span style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline" class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana; "></span></span></span></span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: verdana; "></span></span></p><p><span style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline" class="Apple-style-span"><span style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline" class="Apple-style-span"><span style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; font-family: verdana; " class="Apple-style-span"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5520304561952662834" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJT4lB7TZDJ1xwW6SJ9oIfxH8er9IhDCTCSOe08GkKALBev8VgK4AIeQzmaCHkWAvV3kdNHUzpnsQO15iFhqgXttq5_9satbDtRDXgCXsbAb-7xl-xq3lfjVKX0n4SaWWFpHS6Tf5b9Lc/s320/Lv+6+Pumpkin.JPG" /></span></span></span></p><div align="center"><span style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline" class="Apple-style-span"><span style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline" class="Apple-style-span"><span style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline" class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Wednesday's Dessert Special: Pumpkin Cake with Candied Walnuts, Tuilles and Salted Caramel Sauce</span></span></span></span></span></div></span></span></span>Jackiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03237875632169809915noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4236347761997780882.post-3637343524164590512010-09-21T23:20:00.003-04:002010-09-21T23:24:46.847-04:00Monday, 9/20/10 – Level 6 Day 5 (Pastry)<div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The sun is shining, the air is crisp and it's a beautiful Tuesday in the life of Jackie…regardless of the fact that I am currently struggling to keep my eyes from slamming shut and my brain from going into involuntary hibernation. We spent the weekend in Chicago celebrating a friend's wedding and spending some much needed QT with old friends. My best friend from college just moved into the posh new Aqua building in downtown Chicago (who is this girl??), and we obviously imposed on her barely-slept-in bed and took over for a few days. We had to drive up to the suburbs for the wedding, and realized, upon taking our seat in a snazzy fold-out chair on the manicured lawn and watching the gorgeous bride walk down the aisle and up to a blooming pergola, that is was the exact location where "My Best Friend's Wedding" was filmed! We spent the night toasting, dancing and dining, and it was the perfect place to catch up with some of Steve's fraternity brothers to whom we haven't spoken since our own wedding. Saturday brought necessary girl-time at one of Chicago's staple brunch joints, as well as a pit stop for deep-dish pizza and a rainy evening at the movie theater.</span></span></div><span xmlns=""><p><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The whole </span></span></span><em><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">spiel </span></span></span></em><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">really confirmed something to me that apparently my own wedding couldn't: while it may not seem like it, we are 100% bona fide functioning adults. Sitting at the table with a handful of Steve's pledge brothers, who, just four short years ago were partying frat boys with a penchant for popped collars and Keystone Light beer, it was pleasing to see them in pressed suits, a glass of wine and sitting next to their own wives and fiancées. Words like "beer bong" and "bar crawl" have been replaced by "corporate synergy," "balance sheets" and "TPS Reports" (still boring), but everyone came together to reminisce and celebrate another beautiful union, while inadvertently celebrating their lasting friendship and brotherhood.</span></span></span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Unfortunately, that wedding/QT didn't allow for much pillow time, but we're back in the city now and resuming our semi-normal lives.</span></span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">BIG NEWS, guys: I got a job. Like, a permanent-big-girl-using-my-culinary-education-yet-having-tons-of-fun job. I am the proud new private chef for a very sweet family here in the city, and although I'm terrified to get started, I'm confident I can keep them on their toes with creative, healthy and tasty dishes. I'll be working part-time, starting next week, so I was looking for a worthwhile and interesting way to keep myself occupied. I had heard of Wellness in the Schools at the beginning of culinary school, yet never found the time/opportunity to start volunteering at the beginning of the spring semester. As the New York City public schools start the fall semester, I decided it was high time I devote my skills to a program in which I believe, and quickly signed up to be a volunteer in one of NYC's many public schools. I re-connected with a former FCI student, who was in Level 6 when I was in Level 4, and she's now the manager at one of the downtown schools. I'd love to be her volunteer, but am weighing the pros and cons to having a job, school career and volunteer position that are all no less than 45 minutes away from home via subway. Maybe we should move to Brooklyn sooner than anticipated…</span></span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I've rotated back to pastry again, so I've been happy as a clam riding my gingerbread pony down the peppermint crumble mountainside. I'm over exaggerating – it's not the easiest thing in the world. But we have about three hours to prepare, and often have extra time to make at least one special dessert before the first order comes in around 9:15pm. Unfortunately, we're usually stuck in the kitchen, waiting around, until the last diner is ready for dessert, which could last until 11:30pm if they so desired, but it's a lot of fun to be working with desserts again. As is standard, I was the only one who brought a dessert special idea, so I spent the night making it and coming up with a creative way to plate. The one thing I love most about desserts is that usually, without fail, you can almost always spontaneously come up with creative and gorgeous decorations or pairings. For example, I thought it'd be nice to candy some lime zest for the garnish, and since the by-product was a beautiful, light green and delicious reduced simple syrup I used it to garnish the white plate. Below is the final dish: Honey-Toasted Pound Cake with Mascarpone Ice Cream, Orange Supremes and Lime Zest. (Note: the ice cream was recycled from something else…)</span></span></p><p><span style="color: black; "><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB9CYBWhfe5sOreGihKfr9MVlJ1sVgcGKnCCd1iKBLlELShNAlNqoCh4KsRN5mR7KiHeasJq-zRR6AjJd0ikaN1B6MOO3XT1ooVRh_Qj0eIIH7b0bT1eJ7Q6AJ5ohJsasdf3k3V4Xbtqs/s320/Toasted+Pound+Cake+Dessert.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5519572914302512114" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px; " /></span></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span></p><div><span style="color: black; "><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 16px; color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><br /></span></span></span></span></div></span>Jackiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03237875632169809915noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4236347761997780882.post-82906400894350486572010-09-16T21:23:00.003-04:002010-09-16T21:24:52.461-04:00Wednesday, 9/15/10 – Level 6 Day 3 (Saucier)<div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Before I started class at FCI, when the idea of becoming a chef had just made an imprint on my life but had not yet consumed me, I attended a lecture by FCI founder Dorothy Cann Hamilton. She had invited potential students to a discussion of her new book </span></span><em><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Love What You Do</span></span></em><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">, which details the culinary world from an insider's perspective and challenges those considering entering the industry to make the right decision. She spends 80% of the book detailing the myriad things one can do with a culinary degree that don't involve working in a restaurant, which struck a chord in my own heart. So riddle me this: Why do I feel judged and looked-down up on by my peers simply because I have made a conscious decision that I don't want to spend the next five years of my life as a line cook making $10 an hour, working until 3am every day and answering to the name "Vermin?" Sure, most of them have been slaving away in New York City's finest restaurants for months now (but some of them have been doing nothing at all…), which has made them efficient, skilled and knowledgeable in a way that I might never achieve. But I hardly think that just because I don't want to work in a restaurant makes me any less competent or able, and I'm tired of getting those, "Oh, she doesn't understand that…" looks or walking into a conversation about professional-grade knives and being completely ignored. I believe I have totally proven myself in the kitchen, yet I will never get the complete respect from some of my classmates/teammates/friends until I get a job flipping omelets at Babbo. It's unfortunate, because there are a lot of inflated egos taking up my counter space and I'm having a hard time working around them. I know I'm not the best, but I never claimed to be.</span></span></div><span xmlns=""><p><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Anyways…so that's what's been on my mind lately, exacerbated by one frustrating and disappointing conversation at the end of service last night. I guess I need to take my own advice, given to my mother-in-law who just entered culinary school (!): This is no one's journey but your own. All I can do is keep my head down, my ears open and focus on nothing but improving my skill and soaking up the lessons. And my journey is coming to an end, so I really just have to get through the next few weeks and then I'm home free. Although I'm still not sure what I'm going to do with all that extra counter space…<br /></span></span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Here's our lamb dish: Mustard-Crusted Lamb Loin on a bed of Cabbage Ragout, Chanterelles and Shiitakes and served with a Garlic Potato Puree.</span></span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVxO9IQgJKjvwlrB_pJlmUShkLgua5NapuLR9NNbIJF7eICHIAybhMY1vTO0bQT_mmbX2yRSoaHws8cpdFq_iYnSiSWrvh8CSz5aY-klJQhJODKUnPpQJatf8M-KLzWYi15SwUah4s3mI/s320/Lv+6+Lamb+Dish.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5517687059392385266" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px; " /></span></p><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><br /></span></div></span>Jackiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03237875632169809915noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4236347761997780882.post-24315874729156249402010-09-14T23:00:00.003-04:002010-09-14T23:04:05.962-04:00Monday, 9/13/10 – Level 6 Day 2 (Saucier)<div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Sometimes it seems like I'm always rushing somewhere – to the dentist, to get ready for bed, to blow dry my hair, to get to school. Regardless of the end result, it always involves me saying to myself, </span></span><em><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Oh, you have time, just stay till the next commercial, </span></span></em><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">and then inevitably, </span></span><em><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Crap! How did it get so late?! </span></span></em><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Then there's that moment of, </span></span><em><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">It's alright, the train will surely come immediately, it always does……ok, so the train didn't come immediately, it never does,</span></span></em><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> followed by, </span></span><em><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">No big deal – you're only five minutes late.</span></span></em><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> Well, I'm tired of the stress and hectic nature my life has slowly taken on over the past few years of living in New York City, so I've made a mental decision to be slightly better about leaving myself enough time to do what I need to do. It's unexplainably hard, though, to not hit the snooze button five times in the morning after a sweaty, frustrating night in a crowded kitchen after which you didn't get home until past 11:30pm, then must shower, pack for the next day and find time to bring your mind down to a level that welcomes some sort of restfulness. Such has been my life since January, but the light is definitely at the end of the tunnel. It has affected me more, recently, because I've been working Monday-Friday during the day, leaving work at 5pm to rush to the subway, hopefully catch a train quickly to take me all the way downtown, run to school and change into my uniform in time for roll call at 5:45pm. Sure, I always make it, but my teammates are usually at school, working and setting up, about 15-20 minutes before I even enter the building. Part of me doesn't feel bad, because I'm almost never late (regardless of what I've previously revealed about myself) and I have to pay off these student loans some time this century, but then again I feel like a total a&$ because they are essentially working harder than me. And with our hair tied up underneath our hats and our identical uniforms, there's really no way to tell that I just spent 8 hours pushing papers in a midtown skyscraper.</span></span></div><span xmlns=""><p><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">We had an incredibly slow night in the restaurant last night, partly due to the fact that it was a rainy Monday. Nevertheless, we still had to prepare the night's dishes and power through the nine million things on our To Do lists. We had our last table order their meat dish at 9:45pm, so we started to clean up and cool down our sauces and were done by 10:15pm. We all worked our fastest, scrubbing and cleaning like crazy thinking that we were going to be out (and home) incredibly early. I overheard the Level 5 chef demand that they all be done and ready to go by 10-after, and started to get jealous that they were getting preferential treatment…until he announced a pop quiz to fill the time. Our chef, on the other hand, didn't want to let us out early, lest we go home and spend some joyous time with our families, so he made us stand there…and stand there…and wait until 10:40pm. I understand that he might get in trouble if he lets us out too early…but it's not our fault there were 30 customers total all night!<br /></span></span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Speaking of those 30 customers, for some reason they all decided to sit down and order at the exact same time, so while I was having a blast eating dinner, chatting with my friends and leisurely doing some pre-prep for Wednesday, I got slammed with order after order, all at the same time. Luckily, we cook the duck breasts at the beginning of service, but they still need to be heated up in the oven for pick-up, and it's really hard to stay organized and aware when you have 6 different dishes all on "fire" that are at different stages of the process: one heating, two being sliced, two being plated and one being finished. I was proud of myself, though, when I stepped back and realized all that I had accomplished in a mere fifteen minutes, something that would have made me crawl through the cobwebs under the oven, stuff my sweaty neckerchief in my mouth and cry into the lamb blood stains on my uniform's sleeve just a few months ago. I accomplished the task at hand, but in the scheme of things fifteen minutes of franticness is a cake walk compared so some NYC restaurant kitchens. I learned the other day that my friend, who works at the famous Momofuku Noodle Bar, does about 500 covers on the average Saturday night…that makes my armpits sweat.<br /></span></span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Good news! I found a great new deodorant to make my armpits stop sweating. But seriously…I was browsing the personal care aisle at our local Duane Reade the other day and saw a great new anti-perspirant that I wanted to try. The fun scents were either already opened (ew) or gone, so my choices were: Unscented and Fresh Powder. Seeing as how I don't want to smell like nothingness, I chose powder. Now, I feel like a Johnson & Johnson employee and everywhere I go I hear people whispering "Who's changing a baby?" I wave to a friend - diaper rash. I curl up with my husband - newborn. Note to my female readers: Please learn from my mistake; unscented is always the best choice.<br /></span></span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I managed to sneak my iPhone into the kitchen to finally take a picture of one of our beautiful L'Ecole dishes. Below is a Seared Duck Breast with Sweet and Sour Mushroom Sauce on a bed of Kale, Duck Confit and Kefir Lime Cream, served with a Potato Terrine cooked in duck fat. Pure glutton. (Since it was the demo plate we made for chef, the meat didn't rest long enough so the juices leaked…hence the red liquid pooling near the potato. Please disregard.) </span></span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijFewT_G7762P0YJJPebqwpJQZKaivE26BzEa-YOu636FkPfCKiRhCz3VkPAsWbQPROtQFdkBZou8GsDbRNWYpV5QB4z6-ovIzW6FysJNA5t2X2tERXnsVhgNNmAQCDA1S6fhYTpWttPA/s320/Lv+6+Duck+Dish.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5516970188268351538" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px; " /></span></p><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><br /></span></div></span>Jackiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03237875632169809915noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4236347761997780882.post-65269483259065956352010-09-12T23:18:00.003-04:002010-09-12T23:24:51.897-04:00Friday, 9/10/10 – Level 6 Day 1 (Saucier)<div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">First official day of Level 6! It's finally fall here in the great City of New York, and I find it hard to believe that I started at FCI back at the very beginning of January, as the Christmas high was wearing off and the few dreary months of blizzards and bitter cold still lay ahead. I've now been through a beautiful spring, where the flowers bloomed pink and yellow up and down Park Avenue, and a miserably hot summer, when I went through so much iced coffee it was sinful and spent spare weekends lounging by the city pool. The year is coming full-circle, and it's hard to believe that next month I will be leaving what has become my home-away-from-home to forge off into the culinary world with a fresh degree in my hands. In fact, just a year ago I was unmarried, professionally miserable and hadn't even considered the possibilities of culinary school. How beautiful life is sometimes.</span></span></div><span xmlns=""><p><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">We're already feeling comfortable in our new level, searing off lamb loins and duck breasts like crazy. One thing I know for sure, though, is that the Level 5 students are going to have a loooong five weeks. It's not my place to assume or discuss what happens over there at their station, right next to ours, but all I know is that as their chef was screaming at them at the top of his lungs, the kitchen was so quiet I could hear the seam splitting open on the back of the three shrimp searing on the burner over in Poissonnier. I could also hear the liquid boiling inside the veins popping out of his forehead and simultaneously exploding out both ears like a teapot. It was bad. Then again, some of them aren't the brightest bulbs in the box. For example, we share one long counter top with the Level 5 Entremetier and Saucier, and the boundaries of each are clearly distinguishable. One particularly dim light went through his station (Entremetier), through his class's Saucier station and over to ours to plug in his blender and prepare a sauce on our countertop.<br /></span></span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">"Hey dude, could you please take your blender back to your station? We need our counter space."<br /></span></span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">-silence-<br /></span></span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">"Hey, how's it going? Cool. Um, yea, I'm going to have to ask you to move your blender back to your station. This is our counter space."<br /></span></span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">"I'm ignoring you because your sh*t is filling up the entire counter, and I had nowhere to place my blender."<br /></span></span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Oh no he didn't. "Do you realize that I'm in Level 6, and you are now encroaching on our space? Therefore, take your blender back to Level 5 and resolve that issue with your own classmates."<br /></span></span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">"Oh…….ok." (Right foot is slowly raised then inserted into mouth.)<br /></span></span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">For realsies, buddy, open your eyes. I mean, no one deserves to be screamed at by a hot-tempered older gentleman (or a hot-tempered, pale, 20-something hellcat), but sometimes you have to learn a little respect, humility and responsibility, and if it takes having your mistakes pointed out to you over and over again then maybe that's the solution. Then again, it's easy for me to say because now we're BFF with our chef (usually), but I've been yelled at in the kitchen and told I don't know what I'm doing and hey – I turned out just fine! (*your opinions on this subject are not welcome)<br /></span></span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">We had our first lecture about the upcoming final exam, and of course chef made it seem like it's going to be the hardest, worst day of our lives. It's formatted similarly to the midterm, where we must cook either an appetizer and a meat dish or a fish dish and a dessert…by memory. We will present them to a panel of real judges, usually famous chefs and restaurateurs, and be judged not only on our kitchen presence but final dish taste, accuracy and presentation. We were cautioned to think of the final constantly, with every step we take over the next five weeks, so of course I've turned that into all-around obsession. Unlike Level 3, where we cooked each dish at least ten times before being responsible for it on the midterm, we will only have a crack at each recipe TWICE this time around, and must be constantly vigilant and aware of what the other groups are doing as well. Now might be a good time for me to just take my knife kit and run…far, far away.<br /></span></span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The good news is that I found a new mecca this weekend – </span></span><a href="http://www.nypost.com/p/lifestyle/food/welcome_to_eataly_G5QHOIVyNtzG44tyFb5GVM"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Eataly</span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> by Mario Batali, Lidia Matticchio Bastianich and Joe Bastianich. It's not only an Italian marketplace but a collection of restaurants and all-around teleportation to Italy, in the center of Manhattan! I was in absolute heaven walking around the 50,000-square feet of salami, espresso, gelato, fresh pastas and produce unlike anything I've ever seen. In fact, there were several items I've never actually seen in person (such as the topic of one of my favorite Louis Prima songs – the cucuzza), yet also some veggies I'd never even </span></span><em><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">heard</span></span></em><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> of! Cranberry beans, lobster mushrooms, pous-pide sea beans…where does it end? They also had mini corn IN THE HUSK…how freaking cool is that!! I took the opportunity to buy a little of everything – some sea beans, cranberry beans, zucchini flowers and heirloom tomatoes and used the weekend to conduct a series of tasting experiments. I did a lot of Googling – how is this cooked, what is its origin, etc. – yet made a few misjudgments and mistakes. In a past life I was a biologist and have always loved the creative freedom a laboratory can inspire, so my kitchen has become my own little experiment. The nice lady at the checkout counter sarcastically pointed out that our $8.00 bill made us a few spontaneous big spenders livin' large, but we were happy to just take in the experience and enjoy all Eataly had to offer. I'll have to wait a few months to visit the real Italy, so I think I'll be frequenting this new spot to get my </span></span><em><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">googootz </span></span></em><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">fix.</span></span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0Pf9JVIzEbgkSvXzUBhipYpinLwd0Fh-bzFl5mTsPYAzukuMwwD9PIwTOb1NlRtR1LeadTPqueY_8fTIjSL3ODPFy_Yd_uxMo7A5SzGJmiwtE9-B35DpMoKVeqUF7RTQdlZxwlOLNldQ/s320/Eataly+-+Zucchini+Flowers.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5516232783583338786" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px; " /></span></p><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); "><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuYpk44j_MB4A0PthcGIO96yB8BoNS0g7ORGrFLmxtl7YumUzTIDw03hBFAjzjoGC_VHiVp6yBalhXcVdpJ3EEdN3ASpSqY6ml7qXkyecgPb6BFv3tI_WB9kliKKbcZanKm3n3PvdfmBU/s1600/Eataly+-+Sea+Beans.JPG"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuYpk44j_MB4A0PthcGIO96yB8BoNS0g7ORGrFLmxtl7YumUzTIDw03hBFAjzjoGC_VHiVp6yBalhXcVdpJ3EEdN3ASpSqY6ml7qXkyecgPb6BFv3tI_WB9kliKKbcZanKm3n3PvdfmBU/s320/Eataly+-+Sea+Beans.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5516232779282742674" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px; " /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgS4-pxqQRX1tkZJJx062ETWfUjnh0h4cYuYa1WwEdbDSYELNnNaJqnThGfLDGHkIJm5CGYrDb5ZzsxXl6G5U70sIgp4gmfsak1IcTlp59n7PzWyvGP4Iz6UIIew___d99chss8RStsf_w/s1600/Eataly+-+Mushrooms.JPG"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgS4-pxqQRX1tkZJJx062ETWfUjnh0h4cYuYa1WwEdbDSYELNnNaJqnThGfLDGHkIJm5CGYrDb5ZzsxXl6G5U70sIgp4gmfsak1IcTlp59n7PzWyvGP4Iz6UIIew___d99chss8RStsf_w/s320/Eataly+-+Mushrooms.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5516232764825737298" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px; " /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyY-3vap1wIDqgB6KMoOalUsSt8fRIsFkon_7yaefjnZgVRmTNgmdMDWxY40qn1q3IrolkfS2qsS36uj__VPB488yWQwtnXjFGoqO-AhvCackSMpC39f_Sro8rZaFLD_I92pvSGon4Euk/s1600/Eataly+-+Cranberry+Beans.JPG"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyY-3vap1wIDqgB6KMoOalUsSt8fRIsFkon_7yaefjnZgVRmTNgmdMDWxY40qn1q3IrolkfS2qsS36uj__VPB488yWQwtnXjFGoqO-AhvCackSMpC39f_Sro8rZaFLD_I92pvSGon4Euk/s320/Eataly+-+Cranberry+Beans.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5516232756633553938" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px; " /></a></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><br /></span></div></span>Jackiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03237875632169809915noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4236347761997780882.post-44421185805535978172010-09-09T22:34:00.001-04:002010-09-09T22:34:37.395-04:00Wednesday, 9/8/10 – Level 5 Day 20 (Saucier)<span xmlns=''><p>And so it begins…the final stretch of my time at the French Culinary Institute. On our last day of Level 5, we moved up a level so that the graduating students could take their final upstairs. It's known as the "cross-over" day, when we learn our new recipes and meet-and-greet the new kids. Well, I seem to be the only one meeting and greeting, but I'm always about 35% cornier than the average person so it doesn't really surprise me all that much. "Hey dudes…ya ready? Getting' excited??" I asked the Level 5 Saucier students working right next to us. Had it been a movie, there would have been crickets. Lots of them. Along with someone yelling, "You suck!" out of the silence. <br /></p><p>Our usual chef is on vacation, so we had the pleasure of being led by a kind and skilled chef who often bounces around to different classes. He also happens to be the one who taught us the <em>sous vide</em> lesson in Level 3, and if you'll remember, he's incredibly <a href='http://gettingcooked.blogspot.com/2010/05/monday-51710-level-3-day-14-patissier.html'>hard to understand</a>. I wanted so hard to follow his orders and impress him, but it took my non-French brain approximately 10 seconds to decipher every word he said. "Coo zee lah teel meed rah." <em>Ok, I can do this. He's heating up a pan and grabbing a lamb loin; lamb is usually served at medium rare, so…he wants us to cook the lamb until its medium rare!</em> "Yes chef." I couldn't tell if his confused look was because I answered him wrong or because I stared at him, eyes glossy and brain elsewhere, for a few seconds longer than is socially acceptable. "Don, blah-nch zee kay." Blanche the kale. "Saw-tee ze cham-piy-no." Saute the mushrooms. We made some good headway, but there was a ton of prep to do. Our recipes are pretty complicated, and they require days of preparation to pull off one night of service, so we must not only plan for the night, but we must also plan for the next night and the night after that. I know it will get easier, but the first night in Saucier was borderline overwhelming, with two brand new recipes and a whole slew of new techniques and things to keep in mind. <br /></p><p>One of our dishes, Duck Breast with Duck Leg Confit and Kale and a Sweet and Sour Sauce with Shiitake Mushrooms, requires a duck stock to be made in advance. We were preparing for next week's service and decided to make our duck stock, roasting the bones in the oven first. It was my job to pry the sticky, steaming brown carcasses off the pan to cool, so I started carefully jiggling them loose with my tongs and placing them nicely and neatly, all lined up like a macabre fairy tale, in another pan. They weren't fitting properly, perhaps because I was treating the little duckies too tenderly. Chef came by and, seeing my obvious hesitation, took a side towel, laid it on top of the skeletons and leaned his entire weight down onto them. The crushing, crumbling and (imaginary?) screeching was almost too hard to stand.<br /></p><p>We had about three different things on the stove, along with one water bath that was on a quick track to boiling over. I was manning a sauté pan and reached down to adjust the temperature…and there was no knob. The problem was that we only had one knob to control six burners, so I had to play an arcade game all night jumping from burner to burner with our one knob. When you're rushing, you're not always careful with minute details, and since the knob has a flat side that must be lined up in order to be fit there were a few close calls. I did get compliments for a perfect medium rare lamb that I cooked as a demo for chef…so maybe that sweaty time at the grill paid off. Or the sweaty time at the oven. Then again, it could have been the sweaty time at the sink. <br /></p><p>It's exciting to be on the last leg of school. I'm definitely ready to get my life back to normal…if there is such a thing. </p></span>Jackiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03237875632169809915noreply@blogger.com0