Category: Blog (Page 29 of 30)

There is a folder on my laptop entitled “Story Lines.”  Each file is just a few words or paragraphs jotted down when I’m struck by a flighty flash of genius or I’m when watching a 30 year old memory bolt across my brain knowing it will be lost in a deep, black hole if not written down immediately. At times, a quick read through these ideas enables me to write creatively and entertain. Didn’t happen this time. 

Inspiration jumps out from strange places at unexpected moments. Today’s muse is Rice Krispies’ Treats and Chili Dogs, and I wrote this little missive while cooking them. 

If you’ve been following me on the radio, facebook, twitter or www.intothesoup.com you might have noticed I’ve been just a little busy. Sitting still doesn’t come naturally to me.  My husband likens me to a top. The string is yanked at the crack of dawn, and I spin from task to task until I pass out at 9:00 p.m.  

So, one wouldn’t think that with my current schedule and the changing of my many hats that I’d volunteer to cook for the end of summer girl scout party. No one asked me to, it certainly wasn’t expected. The offer just flew out from the ends of my fingertips in an email to the troop leader.

This morning Yahoo beckoned with sixty emails awaiting reply, the deadline for two magazine articles tugged at my sleeve, and several weeks’ of dirty clothes spilled out of the laundry room as I searched for clean socks.  When my cell phone chirped, “You have voicemail,” I decided to turn it all off and play in my kitchen.

As I pulled the box of Rice Krispies from the pantry and opened a can of tomato paste, my heart rate dipped below 180, and my breathing slowed. My mind cleared while my hands went through the familiar motions of mincing onions, browning meat, melting butter and stirring marshmallows. My soul was soothed as I walked through the house breathing deeply the scent of comfort food.

If this alone weren’t enough indulgence for one day, I spent a lavish 90 minutes with my good friend the Troop leader…just talking. The girls played in the pool; we had a glass of lemonade, ate a chili dog and caught up. I left the cell phone at home, spoke only of family and friends and relaxed.

Cooking calms me. We all have something that brings the temperature down: a good read, gardening, naps and long talks with an old friend. What we sometimes forget to do is utilize them. Everyone seems to be running at break neck speed in an attempt to keep up with email, phone calls, deadlines, housecleaning and family. Take care not to trip and fall my friends. I think I’ll go make a casserole.

Aroma Therapy seems completely logical to me, except for the fact that the type of associative memory smells they sell on drug store shelves are rather obtuse.  How many people grew up with vanilla bean, peppermint and jasmine floating through their windows – all at the same time?  More scents that make sense to me would be something akin to Chocolate Cupcakes or Chicken Noodle Soup.  Just be careful not to slurp down the bubble bath or gobble up the candle.

Smellory packs a big punch, especially if you’re blindsided by it.  A few days back I was setting up an event at a local casino and needed to get a vendor’s badge.  Security was located in a small trailer in the back parking lot.  I knocked on the door, walked in and was immediately transported to Montana. 

This strange little outbuilding didn’t have a very pleasant aroma, and neither did the cabin on Lake Mary Ronan where we spent our summer vacations.  The mind works in mysterious ways and instead of wrinkling my nose and wanting to open all the windows, my cerebellum took a little mini-vacation and sat me in front of plates of corn on the cob, fresh fried trout and cherry pie.

Reminiscent nosegays stir things up for everyone, and we all have faves – spaghetti sauce, chocolate chip cookies, BBQ’s, bacon and eggs, soup and anything roasting in an oven.  I’m the first to roll down the window when passing a bakery or a rib joint. 

Happenstance not withstanding, we often attempt to recreate these enticing fragrances and enhance our encounters with them. For example: spaghetti and meatballs on the stove AND Frank Sinatra work simultaneously to beam me over to that parallel universe and Friday nights in my parents’ kitchen.

There are also those heady perfumes which lead us into the depths of our gray matter that aren’t necessarily associated with food: sea air, sprinklers, sun tan oil, Colorado, lilacs, rain, clean sheets, diesel fuel, the dairy barn, pine trees and baby powder.

Even people smells trigger flashbacks; my late grandmother drops in quite frequently to say hello.  She wafts by most often when I’m doing laundry or oddly enough, shopping at the Mall.  My daughter wears my sweaters when I’m not at home and I inhale her hair when I kiss her goodnight.

Smellory is a powerful, glorious thing!  It is an instantaneous remembrance in the mind’s eye, a salve for the soul and the inspiration for letters to friends.  As for Montana, should you ever get the chance to rent Cabin #6 at Lake Mary Ronan Resort, see if you can spot the “Simpson7” engraved upon the wall – I was there and its aroma is pure therapy.

While folding clothes the other night I pulled my chef’s coat out of the laundry basket and got this little shiver of pride.  I hung it up and admired the embroidery above the left pocket and the familiar folds forever indented on the sleeves.  My new ACF patch will fit perfectly on the right side.  I checked to see if that red wine reduction had come out in the wash… nope.  The third button from the top needed mending.

I adore my coat; it makes me feel cool.  I’ve worn many uniforms and have thrown most of them out.  Whether my other work clothes were identifiable at all doesn’t really matter.  This white double breasted jacket with the odd shaped pocket on the upper left arm is immediately recognizable. In this, I am a Chef. 

The company I started a few years ago is built up and around food.  For appearances sake, I figured a really nice jacket seemed appropriate.  Wearing the coat just wasn’t the same when donned in my prior restaurant jobs. We’d just put on whatever was clean, fit reasonably well, that could button all the way up.  Those jackets didn’t have my name on them, so they don’t count.  I never did care for the look of the toque; it makes my ears stick out, or the neckerchief, too sweaty; basic black pants, please. We all have our own personal style, we artisans of food.    

I read somewhere recently there exists a debate as to whether those of us in the culinary arts are true artists. You must be joking! The painter spends hours or even months playing with reds and browns, oranges and ochre in order to create the perfect sunset.  The Chef spends hours or months playing with stocks and herbs, wine and roux in order to create the perfect sauce.  Artists, one in the same.

One of the more interesting yet somewhat controversial things about us artists is our passion and our pride.  We have a language all our own yet it knows no boundaries.  The food language is included here.  It is international, with few barriers and is filled with that same passion and pride.  It is understood … everywhere. 

Just last December I was in Borneo enjoying a holiday meal at a local resort. Having had my fill of Nasi Lamak and all things stir-fried, an identifiable western dish sounded nice.  If you’ve never been to Southeast Asia you should know that all resorts and many restaurants offer buffets along with made-to-order cooking stations.  The pasta bar had some fresh ingredients and looked pretty tasty until I spied the buckets of butter and cream that SE Asians sometimes equate with all western taste.  Without much humility, I asked the cook if it would be okay to show him a different way to prepare seafood linguine.  He looked a little uneasy until I flashed my chef credentials, then he gladly invited me in. 

While I sautéed my onions, mushrooms and garlic, we got into a wonderful conversation about America, what I did for a living, where he learned to cook and his aspirations.  He was anxious to share knowledge of his profession with someone from so very far away.  One who held the same beliefs, the same passion, the same joy.  My dish completed, he gave it a try, nodded and smiled.  I wished him a Happy Christmas and went back to my table. 

A few minutes later, my new pasta buddy came around proudly escorting the resorts Executive Chef.  He introduced himself to me, presented his card, his smile and a warm hand shake.  He praised my linguine and then suggested a few signature Malaysian dishes that I just had to try.  We had a lovely chat about our favorite thing – food.

In the end, that is what we’re all about. The stuffs that in their most elemental form sustain the world are the very same things that spark our imaginations, awaken our senses and make us who we are.  I love my job and am very proud to wear my coat. 

Please excuse me; I need to go fix that button.