Food for Thought.

Yesterday, the front page of The New York Times announced the end of an era.  As a society, we’ve cast our consumerist vote against “lavish,” food, as the Times termed it.  In doing so, we’ve silenced an outlet for artful writing, thoughtful cooking and a publication, which demanded its readers to genuinely think and become conscious and curious culinarians, replacing it with 30-minute meals, convenience and celebrity infatuation.  As a result, Gourmet Magazine will be ceasing publication after its final November issue due of dwindling readership and the loss of key advertisers.

 

There is no doubt that someone like Rachel Ray is more accessible to most readers.  Gourmet, even the name, suggests an elitist, unattainable quality.  There is nothing inherently “wrong” or “bad” about a 30-minute meal, or the Food Network.  I expect that their popularity has encouraged thousands of Americans to light up their stoves, rather than their microwaves, and move beyond meals of Hamburger Helper or Easy Mac.   

 

The problem exists when Every Day with Rachel Ray becomes a cultural replacement for Gourmet.   Gourmet strived to offer more than just a recipe.  With careful deliberation, its editorials examined human experiences, politics, worldly travel, and our individual relationships with food.  In losing Gourmet, we have lost a major alternative to hastily putting together a plate for dinner and collectively lowered our standards of intelligence.  The articles were lengthy, the words were too big, the recipes too challenging, and the content too heady.  This was its crime. 

 

The decline and fall of Gourmet testifies to the national epidemic of complacency.  The implications suggest that our vote will always fall in favor of convenience and simplicity, but as we begin to loose our alternatives to the 30-minute meal, we allow convenience to become idleness and translate simplicity into illiteracy.  As we do so, we weaken ourselves and limit our perspective.

 

If elitism entails lengthy, but evoking, discussions, exposure to interesting ideas, foods and places, and the advocacy of thought, I’d rather be an elitist.  Although yesterday a major loss occurred, it is important to remember that it is still up to us what we consume, not only as food, but as food for thought.

Cornflake.

Granola sounds friendly, doesn’t it?  “Granola.”  See?  Friendly.  Words of association include….crunchy, oats, hearty, sweet, natural…yogurt…acidophilus… probiotic health…..Perhaps I should stop with the word associations, but the list goes on.  Overall, I think, “Yum! Granola!  Good for my heart, good for my soul.”  I mean, people that love the earth and hug trees have been nicknamed “Granolas,” have they not? 

 

Well, I am here to tell you that granola has a dark side.   Allow me to set the scene….

 

I flipped through the recipe book and scanned the ingredient list.  First of all, it was long and most of the ingredients were not kept on-hand in the bakeshop.  I’d have to take a trip to the storeroom (after, of course, I located the keys to the storeroom, which floated around the kitchen).    Secondly, I’d been told to double the recipe, so that meant 8 pounds of cornflakes.  When I first looked at the number, I thought I might have been mistaken, because the last time I checked, a cornflake weighs…like, nothing.  A second look confirmed that I hadn’t misread.  Eight pounds of cornflakes. This was going to require the 80 quart bowl. 

 

I hustled off to the storeroom (and dairy box –for dried fruits and nuts…yes, I know that those things aren’t dairy products, but that’s where they live.  Go with it.  I do.) in search of oats, apricots, honey, molasses, maple syrup, cranberries, cherries, pistachios, and of course, cornflakes.   

 

I piled my ingredients into a crate, except for the elusive cornflakes hidden somewhere amidst the jungle of supplies.  I consulted the storeroom manager, who can be best depicted as the Indiana Jones of Inventory.  Dodging tin cans and bounded over boxes, we landed directly in front of the cereal.  And there were the cornflakes…but, what was this?  The storeroom only ordered cornflakes in individually portioned boxes (the wee packages you find on complimentary brunch buffets next to the mini-bagels and that scarcely fill a breakfast bowl.)  Each miniature box weighted precisely .80 oz.   The path to my future was suddenly paved with rooster branded boxes. 

 

Quickly metamorphosing into a cereal box opening machine, my motions became automated, ripping open boxes, cutting the plastic pouches and dumping them into the bowl.  With Mission Cornflakes accomplished, I began transforming my workbench into a terrain of small mountains, including scenic Mount Sliced Apricot, Dried Cherry Peak, Toasted Coconut Ridge and Saint Pistachio’s Point (to name a few). 

 

I melted my sugar mixture and poured it over my ingredients, tossing them together in the giant bowl…although, “tossing,” is rather difficult when pounds and pounds of dried fruit and cornflakes are involved, and when the ingredients come up to your bicep.  Not to mention the additional resistance (in addition to pure bulk) caused by the sticky nature of both honey and molasses….it was more of a painful folding process.  By the end, my hand look like a cat had attached itself to me and clawed me to death.   The roughness of the cornflakes had scratched the entire back of my right hand. 

 

But there it was….Granola…beautiful, benevolent granola, starring up innocently at me from the 80 quart bowl… I tasted a cluster.  Goodness.  Pure Goodness.  Despite the toil, hundreds of cereal boxes overflowing the trashcan, and my raw knuckles, I’d made an astonishingly tasty snack.    As two-faced as Janus (or Cecelia…who from the sounds of Simon and Garfunkel, might not be completely on the level.), Granola has won me over again.

Jamaica Have a Bobsled Team

While smooshing cookies yesterday, (“Smooshing” is the technical term for lining scooped cookie dough up on sheet pans and flattening it with a slight pressure exerted from the arm through the palm.  Not to be confused with “Smooching,” which is a different procedure entirely) an image flashed in my head (Well, maybe less “flashed,” and more “popped”…because lightning flashes, or perhaps scarring memories…this wasn’t like that.  Think friendly bubble…Pop!)

 

You know when cats knead?  Maybe if you’re a person of the dog variety you’ve never witnessed this, but cat’s sometimes knead things, like blankets and pillows and perhaps the laps of their owners.  They get this glazed-over look and push back and forth with their front two paws and just knead and knead and knead and knead and knead and basically, look like they’ve reached Nirvana…it’s weird, but relatively amazing to watch.  

 

Well, there I was over the cookie dough, using both of my palms, looking sort of glazed over, pressing back and forth and back and forth…

 

… and I felt like a cat.  I kept this to myself.  

 

Later that evening, Darling D, whom I work with in the evenings, was helping me carry the 80-quart mixing bowl to the pot room.  Each of us grabbed a handle, lifted, and awkwardly moved forward.  

 

She asked, “Have you ever seen the movie Cool Runnings?” 

 

I had. 

 

She then paused and spoke.  “When I carry with this bowl, I always feel like I’m carrying a bobsled.” 

 

The next day we went to brunch.

Steam Kettle and Me

I’d like to introduce you to my friend Steam Kettle. 

 

Steam Kettle and I were not always the bosom buddies that we are today. Being a bit gruff and rather large, I found him a tad beastly (and slightly terrifying).  He hissed and clacked and I wasn’t sure which knob to turn where. 

 

During our first close encounter, Steam Kettle jangled so loudly that I was instructed to loosen a valve below his belly to relieve some pressure.  I wanted to object in modest protest, seeing as we’d only just met and I didn’t want to come across as too forward.  Instead, I timidly reached, twisted and turned his bolt.  Not only was the valve as hot as Hades, but as a result, water sprayed all over the bottom half of my pants.  To say the least, our introduction was a memorable one. 

 

As time progressed, Steam Kettle and I became more comfortable with one another.  We bonded over chocolate crème brulees and pastry cream.   I’d stare fondly into the great vats of molten liquid as Steam Kettle reverberated sweetly.   I know look forward to the melodious clatter.  I turn Steam Kettle’s wheels, understand his temperatures, reach fearlessly into his depths with my whisk and can quickly adjust his pressures accordingly. 

 

Dear Steam Kettle, so many custards would not be possible without you.

The Baffled Bakeshop and the Mystery of Brown Betty

When I arrived at work, I found one of my co-workers starring perplexedly at the dessert menus for the next day’s banquets.  “I don’t know what this is,” she said vacantly from somewhere lost in bakeshop ether.  I scanned the list.  At first glace, everything appeared to be routine.  There were peanut butter tarts, chocolate cream tarts, brownies, cookies, strawberry shortcake….and then I saw it.  Brown Betty.

 

“I don’t know what this is,” I parroted.  

 

Searching to be helpful, I shared that a Brown Betty is actually a type of classic English teapot.   Tea runs in the veins of my family and the “Brown Betty,” has become, a sort of strange quality standard of expectable tea brewery vessels.

 

My tidbit of information was received with a blank gaze.  I hoped she didn’t think that I believed a teapot would actually be listed on a dessert menu.  Sometimes, as an extern, you’re assumed to be half-baked, if you will.  One has to be careful with her use of irony…

 

As it turns out, a Brown Betty does not exclusively refer to a teapot (go figure).  The next day, a recipe was flung in my face and “The Mystery of the Brown Betty” unveiled itself (I think that might have been the title to a Nancy Drew novel). Following instructions, I cubed bread, toasted it in the oven, peeled and sliced apples, melted butter, gathered a bit of orange juice and cinnamon and sugar…and that was basically it.  (There was some toil involving the apple peeler/corer, but I’ll save that for a rainy day, although I do believe the contraption to be a death trap.)  In essence, I concocted a toast and apple casserole.  Everyone took a nibble.  It was rather delectable.  Then again, how can you go wrong with toast soaked in gobs of butter?

 

I went on to do more research and found that J.D.Salinger mentions Brown Betty in, “The Catcher in the Rye,” when Holden Caulfield describes food at his boarding school.  Holden complains, “You always got these very lumpy mashed potatoes on steak night, and for dessert you got Brown Betty, which nobody ate, except maybe the kids in the lower school that didn’t know any better-and guys like Ackley that ate everything.”   Well, let me tell you, J.D.Salinger was highly mistaken.  Brown Betty is delish.  No angsty teen can tell me otherwise.  

 

At the end of the day, we cracked the Mystery of the Brown Betty, no teapots were served for banquet, because I now know that Miss Brown Betty not only makes a stellar cup of earl grey, but also provides wholesome, apple-y goodness.

Birthday Box Spelunking

I opened the box for my birthday and it glistened.  Glossy wrappers, bright colors and quirky animated characters of unfamiliar brands shined like a great big edible rainbow.  It was filled with novelty Mexican candies.  Clearly, this was love in a box. 

 

If you know me, you may know of my love for unusual candy.  When peeking into the depths of the confectionary world, you discover unexpected flavors, unique and sometimes upsetting textures, and like all food, you can explore cultures through gastronomic adventuring….in some cases spelunking.  

 

I sorted through my new treasure, strategically planning my method of attack.  Shall I start with the more familiar, like with the Ibarra Mexican chocolate, which simply appeared to be small chocolate disks?  Or, shall I try the Palerindas, a tamarind-flavored, brownish-red, course-textured glob on a stick?  Instead, I opened a squishy tube labeled “Candy Roll Tamarind.”  As I awkwardly unwrapped the paste, I squeezed and then sampled a bit of mush between my lips.  Peculiar.  I held it in my mouth for a bit.  Pleasantly acidic.  Not bad…although, I couldn’t help think that I should spread it on a cracker, rather than be ingesting straight from a tube.  

 

Candy provides a wonderful curiosity factor that goes beyond tasting.  Somewhere, Candy Roll Tamarind are produced in bulk.  This is fascinating (at least in my mind) because IF they are being produced in bulk (even in modest quantity) there are people consuming Candy Roll Tamarind regularly.  Somewhere, this paste in a tube is being eaten completely un-ironically.  What a fantastic thought!  With this fact, we gain the tiniest glimpse into one aspect of cultural preferences and societal norms of people all around the world. 

 

While I’m nibbling on pink and white Good & Plenty tablets (objectively, no less bizarre than any candy found in my birthday box), what are others chewing on (or slurping, or spooning, or licking)?   Just take a look in my box!

 

Some of findings…

 

1. The Duvalin: A tasty vanilla and hazelnut cream that comes in, what reminds me of, a small jam/jelly packet, which one could find on the table at IHOP.  Again, something I feel should be spread as a condiment, rather than consumed directly…maybe I’m eating them wrong.  I do enjoy the little person on the lid of the Duvalin.  He’s a super trendy cartoon boy sporting a backwards cap and a “D” on his shirt. 
2. Palerindas: This tamarind-shaped glob on a stick tasted like a tangy glob on a stick.  I realize that tamarind by nature is acidic, but my body rejected this pop as poison. 
3. The Peanuts Patty: Brittle is clearly a universal goodness. 
4. Super Mango Loco:  I was terrified to try this after the Palerindas.  This mango shaped lolli began with a hint of sweet and sour mango flavor, which quickly transformed into a spicy Minotaur in my mouth.  Yes, a Minotaur.  Conceivably, the wrapper with the terrified looking mango-man being engulfed by flames was intended to warn me. 
5. Mampostial Black Coconut: This came in a thick fruit leather-like form.  The more I ate this, the more it grew on me.  Basically, it tasted like shredded coconut that someone had burnt a little.  Maybe that’s why it’s black. 
6. Jelly: Yes, that’s all it was called. This token Asian candy thrown into the mix was a little pineapple-flavored cup of gel.  Somehow more gelatinous, or gummy, than jell-o, I satisfying slurped down with one inhalation. 
7. Imbarra, Genuine Mexican Chocolate: These little disks of joy were chalk-full of what seemed to be cinnamon and sugar, giving the chocolate a distinct granular texture.  Different, sugary and delish.
8. Next, I will carry on my box explorations and delve into candies labeled containing chili powder….

“Of course it will be much stiffer after it’s baked.”

I learned how to ice a cake from a lovely business lady in Rocky River, Ohio.   When I first started icing cakes at the bakery there, they looked like this…

 

My mother and I like have fondly dubbed these cakes, “Merryweather Cakes,” referencing a scene in Sleeping Beauty when the fairy godmothers attempt to make a cake without magic (We needed a name for them because I’d made so many in my lifetime).  The layers slide, frosting melts and yes, they very well may require a broom to keep them propped up.

 

 

(I know that it isn’t technically Merryweather who makes the cake.  She just happens to be our favorite fairy. The fat one.  We prefer fat fairies…although perhaps that isn’t the most politically correct way to refer to them…I digress) 

 

…but this lovely lady in Rocky River, Ohio took Sunday mornings and worked with those us who wanted to practice icing and piping.   Teasing and laughing always ensued.   There was no use getting upset or frustrated because at the end of the day it was “just cake,” after all.  The “just cake” motto stayed with me and helps me laugh at any frosting fumble.    

 

Just the other day at Corporate the Giant, my boss had to completely deconstruct a fully decorated wedding cake that has been assembled incorrectly (No, I did not assemble it. Thank goodness!)  Blood pressures skyrocketed all around me, faces turned red, tables became smeared in icing and I was certain that a bomb had detonated from somewhere within the bakeshop. 

 

I ducked and covered at my workbench, while quietly scooping cookies and meekly observing crisis management tactics.  Although the cake still managed to be completed on-time, I think everyone needed to take one iota of a second, breathe, do some yoga on the floor and say to themselves, “its just cake,” and then continue working with the same ferocity and complete the project without panic, but with precision (Okay, maybe there wouldn’t be time for yoga on the floor, but you get the idea.) 

 

The “Just Cake” philosophy doesn’t discredit the craft of cake making.  In fact, I believe it comes from a love of the product.  Cake is fun.  Cake is a form of celebration, so we must not loose our sense of play along the way.  As professionals, must treat cake calamites with a sense of urgency, yes, but our reaction must be proportional to the actuality of the crisis.   We’re not operating on limbs here. No one’s life is on the line (or so I hope).  It’s a piece of cake.  So, when the cake drops, the only “good” reaction I see is one of rationality, continued respect and care for coworkers, and absolute concentration.  It’s a time to own your craft, put it to the test and see how your skills stand up to the challenge.  

 

During one of my first night shifts at Corporate the Giant, my own skills were put to the challenge.  I was left in the bakeshop alone, when a panicked server came power walking into the pasty shop in desperate need of a birthday cake for an “important” dinner guest.   Of course, no order had been placed an order in advance for this cake, and the guest wanted it in about an hour.   My being new, the server didn’t quite trust my simple, “Sure, we can do that for you.” He confirmed three times that I could make the cake.  Yes, yes and…yes. 

 

I took my moment’s pause, went into hyperdrive and concentrated on putting together the cake.  I cut the layers, filled them, crumb coated, iced and decorated.  Luckly, it didn’t turn out to be a Merryweather, although it certainly wasn’t perfect.  It never is.  

 

After the cake was out the door, I thanked the stars for that lovely lady from Rocky River and smiled to myself because I had the secret.  It’s just cake.   

 

The Story of Samson’s Elbow, or I’m a Baker and Need Healthy Limbs

Four days past as I ignored the devil growing in my elbow.  Yes.  The right elbow to be exact.  Funny, how one can dismiss something like that by covering it up with a very large bandage.  Only looking at the swollen, red creature abducting my ulna made it ache.  Not looking was aided by the fact that the sleeves of my whites can’t be pushed beyond my elbows, making it impossible to check the status of my swelling appendage during the day.  Little did I realize, I had a mini science fair project in progress under my sleeve. 

 

Also curious, how we never appreciate our limbs when they function correctly because when they begin to malfunction, worlds begin to crumble.  How is one supposed to lift a 40quart mixing bowl with a missing elbow? (No worries. The question was hypothetical.  All of my limbs are intact… at the moment) 

 

It all started when I came into work with strep throat (Shh! Don’t tell the Executive Chef OR the health department).  Frankly, cookies don’t bake themselves and people don’t change their wedding plans due to sick kitchen help.  Not that the lowly intern (that’s me) is at all imperative to the operations at Corporate the Giant.  Still, extra hands always help.   

 

I had my knife kit, as well as my tool kit (throat spray, advil, antibiotics) and I was ready to work.  My illness revealed its ugly, shining face on the weekend, which of course, happens to be the busiest time of the week in the bakeshop.  Several wedding desserts needed to be finished and plated, there was usual production AND another girl was already out sick, so we were already short-handed.  Not working was not an option.  I also WANTED to work.  I like work.  Work is baking.  Real bakers keep baking, even when the going gets rough.   I am Baker of Steal and Champion of Scooping Cookies at Corporate the Giant!

 

While the pastry chef made lovely cakes like this…

 

I worked on decorating plates and making les petits amuse bouche, while contemplating wearing the mask given to me at the hospital and taking several rehydration breaks….

 

My throat aches and fever began to dissipate.   Meanwhile, I never anticipated that my aching extremity was the true concern.   Worrying about a swollen elbow sounded absurd.  It still does a little.  Death by Swollen Elbow’s Disease? Really? Absurd.

 

I was encouraged to go to the hospital by family members and thank goodness because I need my arms for baking.   They help in rolling out dough and things.   Also scooping cooking.  And I love cookies.  Before this incident, I’d realized, but never fully appreciated the physicality of the kitchen.  Its an element of work that I love, but its one that can easily tear you down, if you abuse yourself.

 

As it turned out, I have a STAPH infection in my ELBOW.  Again, in my opinion, this is an absurd abnormality.    I am now heavily medicated on three antibiotics (two for the Staph and one for the Strep), which are hopefully eradicating all demons from my joints…like Ghostbusters. 

 

Lesson Learned: Listen to your body.  It’s important.  Don’t ignore your swollen elbow because it’s just an elbow.  Elbows are important too. 

 

I was also sent home from work.   I suppose that even Baker’s of Steal need bed-rest. 

 

Let’s all take a moment… Thank you knees and fingers and feet and toes and all functioning parts for allowing me to play, hug, lift sheet pans, squeeze piping bags, and bake.  Dear Elbow, I apologize for not appreciating you fully when you were well.   

 

I encourage you, dear reader, to also take a moment and thank your lovely limbs.

My Love for Cookies is Not the Influenza Virus.

While scooping cookie dough at my new place of work, I realized I have a secret weapon (I will refrain from naming the company’s name because I’m pretty sure it can take my first born away if I do…now and in the future, I will simply refer to it as “Corporate the Giant.”).  Although I am beginning to have the feeling that I am no longer a true novice in the baking world, when I mix cookie batter I still always want to eat the batter.   This is my weapon.  I love the damn cookies.  I love them. 

 

I have a theory that because I love them like the Utahans love Jell-O, they will always provide me with some level of excitement, joy, and thus commitment to the job…even with Corporate the Giant.  Because ultimately, I don’t mind if I mix cookies for Corporate or with my kitchen-aid on the counter in my home.   Either way, I’m making cookies.  

 

When I see the grumbles of my co-workers’ saturate the air of the bakeshop, I see that their rhythm belongs to the time-clock and the cookies have become no more than cogs in the machine.  Any passion they might have possessed has become labor…or maybe got eaten by the eighty-quart mixer. 

 

Either way, when I first arrived to Corporate the Giant, it worried me slightly.  Perhaps, my Cookie Love was just Puppy Love and bound to dissipate.  Perhaps, I was just honeymooning with the cookies… One Grumbler in particular even told me that I would “get over” my enthusiasm, as if I carried influenza.  

 

Specifically scooping the cookies (60 pounds of dough to be exact) has convinced me otherwise and that I might truly be involved in a life-long love affair.   Despite the monotony, the time it takes, and potential carpal tunnel, I am overtaken with delight.   Simple thoughts (and thoughts that I believe hold power enough to shield me forever from a disparaging outlook) trigger a little internal thrill.   

 

I mostly imagine how pleased my 8-year-old self would be that I get paid to spend time making cookies.  Or decorating a cake.  Or how cool it is that what I bake has become palatable enough so that not only will people beyond my immediate family dare to eat it, but will also pay for it.   

 

I realize that because this IS my job, all of these things are expected of me, and should therefore be less exciting somehow….

 

…nevertheless, my internal little kid still thinks it’s wicked cool.  

 

All Things Fried. All Things Full of Sugar

Fair food is great food because the two main food groups are so well represented: Fat and, my dear friend, Sugar.  Oh so many vats of oil wait to sizzle behind the curtains of pop-up tents and portable carts that it nearly drives me wild with delight.  The grease mixes with the stagnant scent of sugar sitting in the air, creating a pleasure beyond the sensation of the Witch’s Wheel.  

Sugar visits the fair in almost all of its wondrous forms.  There is the powdered sugar that gets sprinkled over the tops of glistening fried dough, the caramel of the caramel apples, the break-your-teeth coating of the unnaturally red candied apples, and last, but not at all least, the cotton candy…sugar heated and spun to perfection.  They are simple confections, but a fairground tradition, as vital to the atmosphere as screaming children and giant plush prizes.

 Variations of the carnival classics appear scattered in the mix, such as the Maple-flavored cotton candy I came across.  A winning combination.  Although it looked like I was munching on insulation, my worlds were colliding with each dissolving bite. I’d reached Sugar Heaven.  The two sugariest confections in existence were uniting together in delicious harmony: Maple Candy and Cotton Candy.  The perfect pairing. 

 

Rules of Fairground Eatery:

 

1. There is never too much sugar
2. Never try to order the “healthier option.” You will just be lying to yourself.
3. Be open to eating to all things fried.  Examples include: Twinkies, vegetables of any variety, snickers bars, dough of any variety… 

 

 

PS: I would also like to thank the First World’s Fair of Chicago (AKA: The Louisiana Purchase Exposition) for introducing pizza, the waffle-style ice cream cone, peanut butter, iced tea, the hot dog and COTTON CANDY to the American dietary lexicon.