The Remarkable Adventures of One-Pot Wonder Girl

For Mom and Dad

2010-09-26T16:33:00.000-07:00

[So, I moved to Biloxi, MS a few weeks ago. That's my excuse for not posting in a while. Sorry!]

Anyhoo... Stacey put up a hummingbird feeder over our porch last night, and we had some little visitors today!

I thought my parents might enjoy these pictures, especially my mother. She loves hummingbirds. Love and miss you both!

More cook talk (and a lot of it involves your mom)

2010-08-11T21:31:00.000-07:00

Derek: "Bob, it's past 4:30. Where the hell is family meal?!"
Bobby (pulling a sheet pan of half-roasted ducks out of the oven and examining them): "Hey, Jen? Uh... no one ever died from medium rare duck before, right?"
Me: "You are so on your own with that."

Me (to Lacey): "I told you, cooking on a line is not easy."
Jonny: "Of course it's not easy! If it was easy, it would be your mom."
Derek: "SNAP!"

Me (busily slicing and plating Ahi when an order prints for mushroom ravioli): "Someone stick some ravioli in my steamer!"
Ash: "Please never say that again. Ever."

Gato: "Hey, you got my little balls?"
Me: (confused silence)
Gato: "You know, the little balls. With the crabs. I need 'em."
Derek: "He means crab beignets. Dude, listen to the words in your head first before you say them."

Me (admiring an enormous bone-in ribeye): "That is the biggest hunk of meat I have ever seen!"
Derek: "That's what your mom said."
Me: "Hey, don't forget - the ticket says to pepper-crust and char it."
Derek: "Yeah, she likes it black and crusty."
Me: "If you are trying to make me sick, you are succeeding, sir."

Carlos: "Psst. Table 23. Seat 4. You like?"
Me: "Eh. You can have her."
Carlos: "Heck yes. I'll make room for her Jell-O anyday."

Bobby: "Hey Jen, would you eat a spoonful of veal demi-glace for ten bucks?"
Me: "No."
Bobby: "What about five bucks and a lap dance from Ingrid?"
Me: "Make that a lap dance from your mom, and you can keep your five bucks."

Derek (holding up a peeled boiled egg): "Five bucks says Bobby can't eat this in one bite and sing the Brady Bunch theme song at the same time."
Me: "That doesn't sound like a good idea..."
Bobby (stuffing the egg in his mouth): "Here's the story of a lovely lady..."
Derek: "Dude, you have an entire chicken fetus in your mouth."
Me: "Actually, it's not fertilized, so it's more like a chicken period."
(Bobby starts gagging and runs to the restroom)
Derek: "Thanks, Jen. You get $2.50."

Jonny: "You know what I like best about you?"
Derek: "What?"
Jonny: "Your mom."

FROZEN PEAS!

2010-08-03T10:13:00.000-07:00

I want to go to Kitchen Stadium, just to see this guy.

My big Texas 3

2010-07-20T11:43:00.000-07:00

1. Dallas/Plano: My home. The place where my family is, and the place in which I grew up. My alma maters, St. Mark and Ursuline. Sunny mornings spent reading in a hammock in my mother's garden. That pretty little red-roofed house on the end of the cul-de-sac where I spent many a summer afternoon riding my bike or rollerblading while my dad mowed the lawn in his favorite old hat. Sharon and Dave, Wendy, Tyler, Frankie, Blair, and of course Madison (my adopted family and my beautiful goddaughter). Bar-hopping downtown with old high school friends. Drinking espresso and writing on the patio at Obzeet. The Galleria. The big buildings. Even the traffic on Hwy 75.

2. College Station/Bryan: My second home. Aggieland. Maroon and white EVERYWHERE. Living in the dorms with one boy-crazy roommate and two equally boy-crazy suitemates. Frat parties. Ring dunks on Northgate. Weekends spent studying at Evans library with a mug of hot chocolate. Walking across campus on shivery winter days, and watching the Corps guys jog by. Spicy Ranchero chicken wraps at Rumour's. Yell practice. Silver Taps. Muster. Getting out of class early because somebody succeeded in making Reveille bark. The view of Kyle field outside my tiny apartment's bathroom window. Barbecues with plenty of beer and great neighbors. Crazy nights at Halo, followed by early-morning Whataburger runs. My beautiful students. My amazing coteachers. Cooking elaborate meals on my little gas stove.

3. San Antonio: The Riverwalk. Culinary school. Fleming's. Mornings spent jogging in the park with Gracie. Happy hour at Kona with Sam. Margaritas at Chuy's with Mike and Andria. Floating the river with plenty of beer and great friends. Chipotle Ranch burgers at Luther's. The ceaseless chatter of cicadas in the trees outside my apartment. Being completely submerged in the world of cooking. Studying measurement conversions and baking procedures by day, then sauteing shrimp and whisking butter into beurre blanc by night. Laughing my ass off at the antics of the other cooks at my workplace. Authentic Mexican food everywhere, and Spanish spoken by almost everyone around. Surviving an insanely busy night of cooking alongside my team members and feeling like a part of something big and meaningful. Comparing scars with my fellow cooks. Watching raw ingredients transform into something beautiful, and knowing that I played a role in making that happen.

I effing <3 Texas.

World's Best Rainy Day Activity

2010-07-08T12:06:00.000-07:00

There is something about a rainy afternoon that always has a way of luring me into roasting a chicken. I don't know what it is. Maybe it's the aroma that fills my apartment and makes everything seem so cozy. Maybe it's the therapeutic act of chopping vegetables and massaging a dry rub into the chicken's skin. Who knows? All I know is that when I have an afternoon free and it happens to be raining, I will most likely spend that afternoon roasting a chicken.

So. It rained today. It's still sprinkling right now, as I type. Needless to say, I bought a chicken.

I forgot to buy a roasting pan. You'd think that I would own a sizable roasting pan just for roasting chickens, since it's something I love to do so much. Well, you'd be wrong. I did however have a smallish disposable pan.

The chicken would surely fit in there, right? I thought so too. And it did.

Barely. But then I glanced at the vegetables I had purchased. So many pretty vegetables. Vegetables that were meant to be a lovely, colorful bed upon which this chicken would roast. Onions, carrots, potatoes, celery... All I could think was, "SHIT. I am NEVER going to get all of this to fit in that tiny-ass pan."

But I did. Sort of. There was a lot of squishing and rearranging involved and some out-loud coaxing of the ingredients to cooperate with me. "Carrots, you need to stay UNDER THE CHICKEN. Dammit, LISTEN TO ME. Do you guys want to end up plump and moist or DRY and SHRIVELED?! BASTARDS."

Anyway, long story short (admittedly because I'm tired and hungry, the chicken is finally ready to be consumed, and let's face it: STUFFING MY FACE is more of a priority than BLOGGING), I made it all fit. And I smothered the bird in garlic butter with smoked paprika and ancho chile powder. And it smells heavenly. But I didn't bother to truss it because hey, who am I trying to impress? It's not as though Eric Ripert is coming to dinner, and last time I checked, Giada can't see me through the television.

Here's a quick shot of the finished product before I tear it apart:

I hope it rains again soon.

Battle wounds

2010-06-24T11:40:00.000-07:00

Professional cooks are funny creatures.

We spend hours skimming stock to make the perfect consommé. We handle a filet of sole with as much tenderness and gentleness as you would a newborn baby. We whisk sauces through chinois after chinois until our arms ache, seeking to attain the kind of clarity and shine that only we, as cooks, will ever really appreciate. And yet, we have a very hard time taking nearly as much care of ourselves as we do our food.

We run our bodies ragged, constantly bending and stooping and twisting and turning in an environment that rarely gets below 90 degrees Fahrenheit. We work late into the night, and when we do get home, going immediately to bed is never an option. On top of the massive amounts of adrenaline coursing through our veins after a busy night, our brains are going 100 miles an hour too. How can I fix that one faulty burner? Did I remember to turn off the steamers? Why did that perfectly medium-rare steak get sent back? How many prepped lobster tails do I have left for tomorrow? How can I make this dish better? Faster? More beautiful?

We hurt ourselves for the sake of our craft. We strain our arms and backs by lifting heavy hotel pans and stockpots. We wear down our feet by standing on them for long hours on hard kitchen floors. Our digestive systems and livers hate us. We live on butter, alcohol, caffeine and adrenaline. But some of the worst damage that we do is to our hands.

Before I began cooking for a living, my hands were soft. Delicate. Girly, even. I loved getting manicures and would make the biggest deal over the littlest hangnail. Those days seem like forever ago. I look at my hands today, and they seem like a stranger's hands. Rough. Calloused. Decorated with scars from various burns and cuts. If I didn't know the story behind each of those scars, I really would feel as though these hands did not belong to me. But they are strong and quick and serve me well during the heat of service. I can handle crab beignets straight out of 375 degree oil without flinching. I can dice an onion while making unwavering eye contact with a back waiter without nicking myself once. It took a lot of hard work and time to get my hands to this point. I think that I have a right to be proud.

Cooks love to compare scars. Battle wounds, we call them. A slow night will more often than not result in us standing around behind the line and reminiscing about the stories behind our scars.

"See that one? Broiler. New Year's Eve."

"Oh yeah? Check this one out. Grease splatter while firing scallops for a party of sixty."

"How about this one? Santoku. Tried to check out the new hostess and julienne bell peppers at the same time. Big mistake."

"That's nothing! See this? Mandoline. Ran out of daikon matchsticks in the middle of a rush. Couldn't find the guard. Used my palm instead."

We take pride in our scars because they are physical proof of how hard we work. The beautiful dishes that we create never last. They're consumed in minutes, and often by unappreciative wealthy people who are so drunk on $350 wine that they don't realize the rack of lamb in front of them is absolute perfection, or that its accompanying sauce is a work of art. Each new day - each night of service - brings with it another opportunity for creation. But when all that's left of that creation is a scattering of crumbs on a plate, our scars remain. They comfort us and remind us that our work is real and lasting. Even if our food is not.

Happy Father's Day!

2010-06-19T19:42:00.000-07:00

Have I mentioned that I have the best dad in the whole entire universe?

Well, I do. I have the BEST dad in the whole entire universe. He is intelligent, compassionate, has a great sense of humor, and is a wonderful storyteller. Many of my favorite childhood memories involve sitting around the dinner table and listening to my father's stories. It didn't matter that half of them were completely fabricated. (Sorry, Dad. It took me a while, but I finally did figure out that archaeologists did NOT find Twinkies in King Tut's sarcophagus. Nice try, though!)

I wish that I could be there to celebrate Father's Day with him this year, but I hope he knows that I'm thinking of him. On this day and every day, I am forever grateful to have been blessed with such an amazing father.

Love you, Dad!

Fairy berries

2010-06-12T09:38:00.000-07:00

I found these darling little strawberries at the farmers market across the street from my jogging park. I fell in love with them instantly. How could you not?

They look like something out of a storybook.

Cook talk

2010-06-03T20:16:00.000-07:00

Me: I love roasting red peppers. It's so soothing.
Derek: My favorite thing to make is seared Ahi. 'Cause it's quick. Just a few seconds on each side. Like my love-making.

Me: How do you say Spongebob in Spanish?
Christian: Bob Esponja.
Derek (giggling like a schoolgirl): Say it again. Only this time in your sexy voice.

Hungry: No necesito Gato!
(Hungry's printer spits out 30 lava cakes in a row)
Hungry (clearly panicking): Pretty good, sir! I like it! Chimichanga!

Derek: What's a good safety word?
Jonny: YELLOW!
Derek: Good one.
Bobby: AMSTERDAM!
Derek: Even better.
Me: Lobster tempura?
Derek: Too long. I'd be dead before I got that one out.

Bobby: I totally burned that one. Watch it come back. Just watch it.
(15 minutes later)
Carlos: Hey Bob...
Bobby: I KNEW IT!
Carlos: Here's ten bucks. The guy on 42 says his steak was perfect.
Bobby: DAMMIT.
Me: He means "Thank you."

Oskar (reading a ticket aloud): French onion, 86 onion.
Me: What?! Like no onion? French onion, no onion?
Oskar (shrugging): Es your people.

Jonny: Derek likes his fish like he likes his women.
Me: Raw?
Derek: Oily!

Me: Hey D, how was your date last night? Happy ending?
Derek: Two words. Paintball mask.

Bobby: I think I burned this.
Me (laughing): Our relationship isn't quite there yet, Bob.
Bobby: Huh?
Me: I thought you said you're ready for kids?
Bobby: Noooo. I'm saving myself for Derek anyway.

Me (handing Bobby a shoestring potato): I finally figured out how to make the shoestrings crispy. Taste this. It's perfect.
Derek (hollering from across the line): Hey babe, refire those shoestrings for 202! They want 'em crispier!
Bobby: You're gonna dunk his hand in the deep fryer, aren't you?
Me: You know me too well.

What Jenny's Eating Today Vol. 9

2010-06-01T10:08:00.000-07:00

This.

Is.

BLISS.

Pure bliss. Also known as huevos rancheros.

As much as I'd love to, I can't take credit for this. I stole this idea from the lovely and hilarious Shannon. The recipe can be found here, on her blog. Thank you so much for letting me mooch both recipes AND blog material off you! You rock!

Mexican Beer Snacks

2010-05-30T07:58:00.000-07:00

During my third year at A&M, I worked as a bartender for a large hotel in College Station. It was an easy job, and most of the time I really enjoyed it. Businessmen would drop in, have a gin and tonic or four, and try to impress me by leaving very large tips. Pretty sweet deal.

The only problem that I had with this job was whenever my patrons requested free bar snacks. This always made me cringe. I couldn't help it. We had a huge, 6 lb. bag of pretzels behind the bar that had been there for as long as I'd worked there. And that's what I was expected to give these men. This bag had already been opened (not by me), and it did not have any kind of handy zipper feature to seal it back up. It just always stayed open.

IT ALWAYS STAYED OPEN.

The thing about pretzels is that they don't rot. Well, maybe if they got wet they would. But that's beside the point. They stale. They may look just fine, but they most certainly are not. And I am just not okay with serving sub-par food to anyone, especially a complete stranger.

But those strangers would ask for them. And it was part of my job. So I'd suck it up, scoop up a bowlful of misery and hand it to the sorry bastard, my inner chef sobbing and wailing, "No! No! Noooooo!"

Maybe a bit of an exaggeration. But anyway, that was my only real experience with bar snacks until just recently.

I am forever indebted to my fellow cooks for introducing me to this "beer snack." No, it doesn't contain any beer. I think they just call it that because it goes so well with beer. Especially Corona. Or Modelo. Mmmm...

You will need:

Salt (preferably kosher)
Cayenne powder
Chili powder
One cucumber
The juice of 4 limes
A handful of cherry tomatoes
Chopped fresh cilantro (optional)

You will also need:

A knife
A cutting board
A bowl
Plenty of beer

The rest is pretty self-explanatory. Peel and slice the cuke. If you want, halve the tomatoes. Combine everything in the bowl, and give it a good toss. You can add as much or as little chile as you want, but I like lots of it. And lots of salt.

The next time you're having friends over for beers and barbecue, TRY THIS. You'll thank me. And you'll thank Mexico. It is salty, spicy, tangy nirvana. And it beats the hell out of stale pretzels.

Hey, Soul Sister

2010-05-27T18:33:00.000-07:00

I cannot for the life of me get this song out of my head. I love it, love it, LOVE IT.

I swear that ticking sound is NOT my biological clock. Nope. You must be imagining things.

2010-05-26T09:26:00.000-07:00

Last night at work, as I was searing and slicing Ahi tuna and simultaneously trying not to burn my asparagus, I found myself missing my teaching days. A lot.

Don't get me wrong - I love being a professional cook. LOVE IT. My job is crazy and hectic and physically demanding and exhausting and exhilarating, and I love every second of it. Even the seconds that I hate, if that makes any sense. But I can't help missing those adorable tiny people I used to lovingly refer to as "my little demons."

I miss comforting pudgy little Mari as she wept because the afternoon snack was cheese and crackers instead of chorizo. "No want cheese! I wanna chorizo, Jenny!" (We never once had chorizo as a snack, by the way. I don't know how she got it in her head that it was even a possibility.)

I miss marveling at Camila's intense love of reading and ability to recite "Goodnight Moon" with complete accuracy and conviction. I swear that girl is going to be the next Tolstoy or something.

I even miss Rodney's psychotic laugh and how every once in a while it would genuinely freak me out. (Maybe I've seen "Child's Play" one too many times or maybe I'm just a horrible teacher, but cackling children totally set off my fight-or-flight response.)

But most of all, I just miss hugs from little arms and hearing little voices accidentally call me "Mommy."

I so need children in my life.

You know you're in an Asian home when...

2010-05-23T11:52:00.000-07:00

So I went to Plano last weekend for my kid brother's college graduation (I don't know why I keep calling him that. He's not a kid anymore. He's 25. SO WEIRD), and my parents kindly let me shack up in my old childhood bedroom for the one night that I was there. Amid all the hubbub, I got to hang out at the house for a bit and just kind of wander around, familiarizing myself with all the new shit they bought since the last time I was there. I love my parents. Really I do. But God bless 'em, they buy a lot of shit. My secret nickname for them is the Upgrades. New refrigerator, new computer, new TV, new couch, new you-name-it.

It made me think of the Sims and how the whole point of the game (to me) was to earn as many simoleons as possible so that you can continually upgrade all of the shit in your Sim's house while trying your best NOT to accidentally kill your Sim somehow along the way. That game is the devil, but I was so addicted to it. I used to play it so much that I started to imagine that I had status bars floating around my head. I couldn't even eat a sandwich without envisioning my energy bar filling up with green. It frightened me in a really "Exorcism of Emily Rose" kind of way, so I quit playing. I'm still a little scared of that game.

Anyhoo. As I wandered around checking out all the upgrades, I started to notice that my parents have a lot of weird stuff in their house too. Not weird in a bad way. Weird in a foreign way. Which is actually not too weird at all because my mom is from Vietnam. So I suppose for her, the stuff around their house is totally normal and legit. And the funny thing is that most of this stuff was there when I was a kid and lived there, but I guess it took living on my own for 9 years for me to realize that a lot of the stuff they have lying around is NOT YOUR TYPICAL SHIT.

Consider, for example, exhibit A:

Tiger Balm and Dragon Oil. They are really just the Asian version of Ben-gay or Icy Hot, even though they sound like they belong in some cauldron being stirred by witches on the night of a full moon. Nope, just your average analgesic ointments.

Oh and then there was this:

Just your typical wall art. Who needs photos of the family when you can have gigantor framed pictures of strange fruit? Not me!

And you can never have too many of these:

You guessed it. Mangoes. (Honest hour: I do so love mangoes and actually do not think I could ever have enough. I am drooling a little just looking at the above picture. I am my mother's child, after all.)

THIS SHIT, however, is a total mystery to me:

It's obviously some sort of bed. With about a million wires and a remote control attached to it. It was in what used to be my brother's bedroom but is now a spare guestroom. I was hesitant to try it out because I have a tendency to break shit, so I just snapped a picture and backed away slowly. I still have no idea what the hell kind of purpose it serves. Some things are better left unexplained.

Ha. My dad is going to read this and be all, "Why are you posting pictures of your mother's stuff for the whole world to see?!"

Hi, Dad! Love you! And all the upgrades too ;)

The Shoestring Potato Conundrum

2010-05-22T20:37:00.000-07:00

One of my least favorite things to cook are shoestring potatoes. They are nothing more than really skinny fries. They are ridiculously simple. Yet I detest them. Okay, I don't actually detest the actual fries - they're effing delicious. But I detest making them. It took me FOREVER to figure out how to get them crispy, like they're supposed to be. You'd think that would be easy. Dunk the damn things in hot oil for a while, then serve 'em up.

You'd think. Well, you'd be wrong.

Apparently there is a very specific way to make perfect shoestrings. Very specific. In fact, so specific that it has taken me precisely six months to figure it out. But I've got it now. At least, I think I do.

1. Place raw shoestrings in fry basket.

2. Dunk in oil. Oil must be exactly 375 degrees Fahrenheit. Not 374. Not 376. THREE SEVENTY FIVE.

3. Count to eight. (You are blanching them at this point, not cooking them.)

4. Quickly remove shoestrings from oil and set aside. Let them rest for at least five minutes.

5. Precisely three minutes before you are ready to serve shoestrings, dunk them back into the oil for those remaining three minutes. When they are crispy and golden-brown, take them out, season them and serve them up.

I realize that this sounds absolutely insane, but if you only knew how many effing shoestrings I have had sent back because they weren't crispy enough, you would understand my psychotic OCD about this crap. I can cook a perfect lobster, make a dozen different kinds of beurre blanc and a near-authentic spaetzle from scratch, but people are gonna tell me that I can't FRY POTATOES?!

That shit pisses me off to no end.

So... after much trial and error, I have finally figured out the formula for the perfect crispy shoestring potatoes.

*insert applause here*

Best. Craigslist. Ad. EVER.

2010-05-21T09:06:00.000-07:00

(Click thumbnail to view)

I see what you're doing. And I thank you for it.

2010-05-20T09:54:00.000-07:00

I have the world's best coworkers.

I write about work a lot. I realize this. Bear with me.

When you work as much as I do with the same small group of people in an environment as confined as ours, you become extremely sensitive to your coworkers' moods. We don't even need to say anything. Our cooking says it all. I can tell when Oskar is feeling discouraged just based on the way he dices shallots. I can tell when Derek is feeling content by the way he handles a saute pan. I know that Gato is in a good mood when he garnishes dishes with a generous hand. When Bobby has had a rough day, he goes through a stack of towels in less than an hour. When I am feeling happy, I find myself using my body more fluidly - my hips to shut drawers, my shoulder to push the grill back under the broiler, my foot to open/shut oven doors - the dance of the kitchen comes more naturally to me when I'm happy.

It's no secret that I've not been myself lately. We all have dark moments. My fellow cooks could tell, but they didn't require an explanation. Yesterday was a lesson in love, for sure:

As soon as I walk in the door, Chef offers me a mug of hot tea. Music is always blaring in the prep kitchen from somebody's ipod, and this day it's his. He turns it to a Jason Mraz song because he knows I love me some Jason.

"This is my song for you, Jenny!"

"Um, boss... this is a love song."

"YOU LIIIIIIKE IT!"

"Right."

I head to the coat closet to find a chef coat. Normally there are never small sizes and rarely mediums. People fight over the mediums. Medium chef coats are like gold in our kitchen. When I can't find a medium (which is 89% of the time), I just wear a large coat and roll the sleeves up about 6 or 7 times. On this day, however, there's a medium coat with a sticky note bearing my name on it. Actually, it says "IF YOU AREN'T JENNY, DON'T EVEN THINK ABOUT IT," followed by a couple of expletives. So sweet.

"Well," I think to myself, "They're being awfully nice to me. I wonder if I'm about to get fired."

I head up to my station to begin turning on my ovens, steamers, fryers, etc. Ash is already there, stocking up my mise for me. She works the grill. I am surprised and grateful.

"Thank you. You don't have to do that."

She shrugs and smiles. "I got you, girl."

Together, we have both our stations stocked and fired up well before service begins. I head back to the prep kitchen to find the recipe for Parmesan spaetzle and immediately run into Hungry.

Let me tell you about Hungry. He's one of the pantry guys (salads, cold appetizers, desserts). His real name is José. Everyone calls him Hungry (he even calls himself Hungry) because when he first immigrated from Mexico and applied for a job at our kitchen, all he could say in English was "I'm hungry." He is 56. He behaves like a 14 year-old who has not been taking his recommended dosage of Ritalin. When he is not working, he sells vitamins door-to-door. He doesn't speak much English but does possess a weird, eclectic collection of English catchphrases. He has nicknames for everyone. To Hungry, our sous chef is "Gordo." Our chef is "Chino." The portly Caucasian frontwaiter is "Winnie-the-Pooh." The tall, good-looking frat-boy bartender is "Baby Douche." Hungry never fails to make me laugh.

"Chula! ¿Cómo estás? I loving you forever!"

"Hey, Hungry... I'm ok. I love you too."

"¿Por qué estás triste, mi amor? I make it better. Hungry here. When Chino leaving, I giving you lava cake. Mucho lava por mi chulita."

(He thinks that lava cake is the solution to all problems. He could be right.)

"Aw, thanks Hungry. You're the best."

We eat family meal (pasta with a delicious tomato cream sauce, basil, capers, mushrooms and onions. Ash added extra jalapeños - my favorite), and service begins.

The chirp of my printer is steady without being overwhelming. I find myself focusing on my work and forgetting about everything else. My burners are behaving themselves, my ingredients seem especially fresh and beautiful, and everything I send out makes me proud. I can't help putting a little English on the plates as I send them spinning through the pass. I even catch myself humming at one point.

Pretty soon the second rush is over, and the night is winding down. Oskar insists on closing the station because he hasn't been getting enough hours. I glance up and see Ash and Chef whispering to each other and looking my way. What are they talking about? I try not to worry as I clean my knife and tidy up a bit. I am about to clock out when they stop me.

"How do you feel about dish?" Chef asks.

I know he is talking about the dishwashing station.

"Fine, I guess. I wouldn't know what to do, but I'll learn."

"Great. George will show you what to do."

Let me tell you about George. George is not much younger than Hungry. He is also from Mexico and speaks very little English. He has a curly mullet and is missing several teeth. His left pupil is more of a vertical line than a circle, giving it a snake-like appearance. He is always smiling and has a habit of hugging people close when he talks to them, forcing them to look into his crazy eye. I like him very much.

George seems surprised that I want to help him, but with the aid of gestures and broken English he is able to teach me what to do. Together, we plow through a huge pile of dishes. It is absolutely exhausting, and I am completely drenched with both hose-water and sweat by the time we finish. George has not broken a sweat. In fact, I'd guess he would have done it all in the same amount of time had I been helping or not.

Chef appears and surveys our work.

"Not bad. Now before you leave tonight, you're in charge of reorganizing both walk-ins and the dry storage. Label everything, toss everything that needs to be tossed. That kind of thing. I'm going home, but I'll see you tomorrow."

I gawk at him, too weary to respond. His tone is firm, but something in his expression is gentle and laughing. I sense a conspiracy.

Again, I do as I am told. Two hours later, the dining room manager is ready to lock up for the night, the dry storage and walk-ins looks immaculate, and I am ready to drop. As I drive myself home, I want to be angry. I really do. I'm a cook, dammit! What's with all the non-cooking busy work? Am I that bad in the kitchen? What's the deal?!

It's not until I am in bed and about to drift off to sleep that I realize the kindness of what just happened. My body is so drained that it's impossible to stay up all night worrying. There's no room for sadness. Sleep comes easily. Much-needed sleep.

Kindness comes in so many forms. I feel so fortunate.

I have the world's best coworkers.

10 best things about today

2010-05-18T18:06:00.000-07:00

1. Discovering Firebowl Cafe in the Quarry

2. Playing numerous rounds of DDR, even though I am nowhere near as good at it as a certain someone

3. Getting my picture taken with wax versions of Johnny Depp, Vivien Leigh, Clark Gable, Julia Roberts, Tom Hanks and the cast of "Harry Potter"

4. Dippin' Dots

5. Attempting to communicate using nothing but song lyrics

6. Laughing and feeling genuinely happy over horrible margaritas and chips with watery salsa

7. Lightsaber battling in the middle of a gift shop

8. Two-headed cows

9. The Spanish Inquisition painted in full detail on the wings of a tiny butterfly

10. Screaming our heads off for absolutely no reason on the drive home. Just to relieve stress :)

Awkward Family Photos

2010-05-18T09:31:00.000-07:00

I love this picture for many reasons:

My brother is so very handsome (...although far too thin. I was giving him a back rub at dinner, and all I could feel were bones).

You can't even tell that my dad fractured his cervical spine just a couple of months ago. He is neck brace-free and healthy.

My mother is in the center foreground, where she loves to be.

Ryan looks lost. Literally. He looks to me as though he is interrupting the photo to ask us for directions.

My aunt is clinging to his arm protectively and looks just so adorable. I adore her.

Lynn looks so much like Lisa that it freaks me out a little.

Eff this

2010-05-17T23:22:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I went into work devastated. I was about to fall apart, and Jonny could tell.

"Hey, chick. You look like shit. I have some sub-primals. Let's practice your carbon skills."

And with that, he ever so patiently taught me how to clean up a tenderloin, remove silverskin in the most efficient way, angle my knife just so, put my strength in my wrist instead of my arm, make a V-cut without wasting any meat, and end up with a beautifully trimmed loin, ready to be portioned into steaks. And I love him for it.

Cooking is my therapy. I don't need a shrink. I need raw ingredients, a sharp knife and a fire.

With those things, I can do anything.

I can do this.

2010-05-16T04:57:00.001-07:00

The sky reflects my moods so perfectly. I could use a little sunshine, though.

I keep dreaming about green kitchens.

I think that work will be the best thing for me right now. That is what I keep telling myself. I will go to work. Inhale the scent of fresh vegetables. Get my hands dirty. Break a sweat.

I will not cry. I will not tremble. I will not fall apart.

I will cook. I will create. I will throw myself into my craft with such force and passion that there will be no room for anything else.

I know that I am capable of loving fiercely. I will direct that love toward something more productive than *this.*

Just as food nourishes the body, cooking nourishes my soul. I will feel whole again. I will. And one day, you will come across a restaurant review in the Food section of the newspaper. You will be curious. You will start driving. You will sit alone in the shade at a table for two on the patio of a charming little bistro that will be far less than you expected, but also far greater. You will taste the best damn cassoulet you have ever had in your life. In fact, it will be so good that you will order a second bowl (and you never do that).

And you will see how far I have come.

A conversation (of sorts)

2010-05-15T22:45:00.000-07:00

Me: How do you let someone go?

J: You just do. You just stop thinking about them.

Me: ....

J: Well.... if it's really love, you don't. You can't let go of love. You don't ever let go. You never forget. You remember that person for the rest of your life. Nothing can take that away from you.

Me: What if you want to forget?

J: You won't. It's not your choice.

Me: .....

J: I have never known you to be so naive or ignorant before.

Me: I have never felt this way before. I don't know what to do.

J: Life is a game, Jenny...

Me: It's NOT a game! No! Life is a verb full of lessons, and as long as we're breathing we have options. Someone important told me that once upon a time. And things are exactly the way they're supposed to be.

J: Bullshit. You can't accept life as it is - you make it the way you want it to be. If you want something to happen, you go out there and MAKE IT HAPPEN. That's how life really is.

Random thoughts on a rainy day

2010-05-14T10:13:00.000-07:00

I have to be at work in two hours.

I have very intense feelings about my job. Cooking is just so personal to me. When food gets sent back or I end up in the weeds half the night, I find myself fighting back tears and absolutely hating my job. I tell myself I'm quitting. I can't do this. I can't handle putting so much of myself into something and then having someone tell me that it's just not good enough. Fortunately these nights are rare. Most nights I walk to my car with a mile-wide grin on my face and drive home wondering how I got lucky enough to find someone who will actually pay me to have this much fun. The camaraderie in a professional kitchen is indescribable. Unless you work in one, you will never understand. And the opportunity to play with amazing ingredients all night long - I can't think of anything cooler! Our menu is constantly changing, and I am learning new techniques everyday. Okay, enough about work. I could literally go on and on for hours.

I found my knitting needles yesterday. They were hiding between the computer desk and the wall. How they got there is beyond me. I think Gracie is responsible. (When in doubt, blame the dog.)

My little brother's graduation is tomorrow. I smile every time I think about it. I cannot wait to watch him walk across that stage. I am a proud sister.

I am losing weight. The scale read 111 lbs this morning. My favorite skinny jeans are baggy now. Yesterday I was trying on clothes at Express in an attempt to find something decent to wear tomorrow. I am usually a size 2 there. Not anymore. The verdict? 00. That's DOUBLE zero. I kept checking the tag, sure that I was misreading it. I look in the mirror and don't see myself as very thin at all. Sometimes losing weight frightens me, but most of the time it makes me ecstatic. I can't help it. I know better, but I just can't help it. I blame the dog.

I could use a haircut.

I could also use a massage. Oh, how I could use a massage.

We watched "Empire Strikes Back" a few nights ago, and I find both M and myself talking in Yoda-speak without even thinking about it. It sounds funny, and most of the time it is, but I'm kind of afraid I'll slip up and do it at an inappropriate time/place. For example, checking out at the grocery store. "Paper bags I would like... A nice day you must have."

More sleep I must get.

Mother's Day

2010-05-06T16:59:00.000-07:00

With the fast approaching holiday, I can't help but think about my mother and the role that she's played in my life. I'm also confident she won't read this because she's far too busy with more important work:

(*ahem* FARMVILLE... *cough* CAFE WORLD...)

I'd be lying if I said I didn't miss her. We have our share of disagreements, for sure. I know that I don't call her nearly enough anymore. I make up terrible excuses... I have to study, I have to go to work, it's too late, she's probably busy, this book is really good, "America's Next Top Model" is on...

But I love her. She taught me to be courageous and generous. She taught me to bargain shop. And to treat everyone - even the dude that cuts you off in traffic - with kindness, respect and a smile. She taught me to see the beauty in nature and the precious life within the tiniest rosebud. And she taught me to be proud of my Vietnamese heritage. It's a beautiful thing.

I look forward to next weekend and flying to Plano for my brother's graduation, not only as a chance to celebrate his accomplishment with him, but also to see my mom and hopefully have the opportunity to let her know how much she means to me.

Mothers everywhere, have a wonderful May 9th. It's your day :)

Pigs in a blanket

2010-04-14T07:51:00.000-07:00

For my Food & Beverage Costs class, we were given a "make or buy analysis" assignment. We were supposed to find a recipe (containing at least 5 ingredients) for a food item that had a ready-made convenience food counterpart. We then had to figure out the cost for one portion of our homemade version vs. one portion of the convenience version, then compare the two (including other factors such as labor, special equipment necessary, time, etc.) and decide whether it would be better for a restaurant selling this item to make it in-house or buy it ready-made. For 10 extra credit points, we could make samples of our recipe for the entire class to taste.

I chose "pigs in a blanket" because I love them, and they're easy and quick to make. I found some frozen mini sausage kolaches at HEB to compare with my recipe. The frozen kolaches came out to about the same cost per portion as mine (about 60 cents), but I much prefer mine because I added a few special ingredients. The HEB ones were just plain sausage and bread. Mine included sausage, bacon, scallions, cream cheese and jalapenos. Yum!

I also used garlic-butter crescent dough, which made them even more delicious. It was hard to save any for my class!

Don't they look so cute, all nestled in their little blankets? Like a kolache nursery. Aww.

Everything tastes better with bacon....

2010-04-12T12:05:00.000-07:00

.... even dental hygiene!!!

I found this at a little shop in Austin this weekend and just thought I would share. I can't tell you what it tastes like though (I'm assuming bacon, but I could be wrong) because I'm sending it to my dad. So you'll have to ask him. Enjoy, Dad!

Charter for Compassion

2010-02-19T22:03:00.000-08:00

Interesting bread

2010-02-14T09:23:00.000-08:00

I made this in baking class yesterday morning. (Try to ignore the gnawed part on the left.)

Things I've learned about cooking on the line

2010-02-13T22:40:00.000-08:00

(In no particular order)

1. When Chef asks "How long?", always say "10 seconds" even if what he wants from you still has 5 minutes left before it's ready.

2. Never second-guess what Chef asks for. If he asks for 3 calamaris, and you just sent out that exact thing, do it again. He wants three more.

3. Don't be afraid to ask for help. If you're running out of asparagus, just glance up and find a waiter twiddling his thumbs in a corner. They're everywhere. Get him to fetch it so you can stay on the line and keep up with your tickets.

4. Even if you are clearly in the weeds (i.e. your board has 20 tickets on it and the printer is spitting out 20 more that you haven't even had time to look at), NEVER panic. Stay calm. It's just food, after all.

5. While staying calm, always move like you're in a hurry. Even when things start to slow down, know that they'll pick up again - usually before you're ready for it. Do everything as quickly as possible while still maintaining quality standards.

6. Always, always, always call back the tickets. Chef and the other cooks need to know that YOU know what's on the board.

7. There's no point in getting upset when a waiter counts his tips in front of you. The bottom line is that you CHOSE to be a cook. You CHOSE to do this. So love it, or do something else.

8. Your hands will be sore. Get used to it. You toss heavy saute pans for hours every night and use tongs like they're your second pair of hands. If you wake up some mornings in tears because you can't flex your fingers without feeling as stiff as a 100 year-old, just remind yourself that you have cook's hands. They're getting stronger every day.

9. Be prepared to make sacrifices. A lot of them. Being a professional cook means giving up your free time and your social life. It means either being single or forging a relationship with someone who is willing to spend evenings alone and doesn't mind that you spend more time with your fellow cooks than with him/her. It means sleep deprivation and sore joints. A lot of times, it means sacrificing your sanity as well.

10. Be PROUD. Take pride in your work - in the dishes you send out and in the teamwork involved in making it all happen. Taste everything. Wipe those fingerprints off the plates before you send them through the pass. Angle that lobster tail just so, making it look picture perfect. Make the extra effort to do things right the first time. Respect the food. Even in the heat of service, when your body and mind both feel completely overwhelmed, take the time to enjoy yourself and be humbled by the experience of working with amazing ingredients and cooking outstanding food.... and getting paid for it!

What Jenny's Eating Today Vol. 8

2010-01-29T11:15:00.000-08:00

S'MORES!!!

What Jenny's Eating Today Vol. 7

2010-01-28T08:47:00.001-08:00

Well, croissant sandwiches aren't just delicious on bright, sunny days after all. When I woke up this morning, it was rainy and gloomy outside. A warm breakfast croissant just sounded so cozy, with a hot mug of cucumber white tea.

And for an afternoon snack later... a croissant and Nutella sandwich perhaps?

What Jenny's Eating Today Vol. 6

2010-01-26T09:55:00.001-08:00

Hickory smoked turkey and ham with Colby jack cheese on a buttery croissant. And a couple of kosher dill pickle slices.

The weather in San Antonio right now is gorgeous - 61 degrees, brilliantly sunny, plenty of cool breezes without actually being windy. To me, this seemed like the perfect simple lunch to enjoy outdoors on a perfect day.

(If I sound obnoxiously corny, forgive me. I tend to get a little romantic about the weather. I think it's because in Texas it will often be balmy and beautiful one minute, then pouring rain and freezing the next. Such is life.)

New Year's Eve

2010-01-03T09:35:00.000-08:00

You arrive at work early, jittery about tonight's service hours before it even begins. You know it will be insane. Everyone's been talking about this night for weeks - months even. You're terrified, but you can't let it show because the last thing you want Chef to think is that you're not mentally prepared, otherwise you know he'll shadow you all night, inspecting everything you send out and watching your every movement like a hawk. You walk in smiling, head held high, pretending to be absolutely ready for this night. The prep area is already packed with bodies, everyone chopping, mixing, stocking up on ingredients because NO ONE is allowed to run out of ANYTHING tonight. Tonight must flow smoothly, like a dance. Tonight can make or break you.

It's New Year's Eve. And you're a line cook.

As you button up your chef coat and tie on your apron, you think about the 400 reservations on the books for tonight, and your stomach does somersaults. You know that some of those reservations will be no-shows, but for every no-show there will be three walk-ins, so you're looking at 500+ covers. In one night. You've felt slammed doing 200 before. You cannot fathom what 500 will feel like.

On your way to your station (hot appetizers and sides) you run into Amy, a veteran line cook who taught you the ropes. She's already sweating. "I need you to prep six sheet pans with bakers, and I need at least ten of those bakers in the oven YESTERDAY!" You do a 180 and make a mad dash for the sheet pans, filling them with 20 bakers each. You quickly scrub, rinse, oil and salt the potatoes and rush to slide one of the pans in the oven. The rest of the pans go on a rack behind your station, where they'll be easy to grab when you need them.

The next few hours are a blur of activity. You run around, dodging other hurried cooks, looking for saute pans, pots, spatulas, whisks, measuring cups, ladles. You desperately need hotel pans and third pans, but it seems like everyone else has already claimed them. You finally find a stack of available pans... in the dish washing area, caked with rock-hard layers of what might have once been soup or sauce. It's hard to tell. You grab the powerful dish hose and spray the pans down (of course, dousing yourself in the process), then run to fill said pans with creamed spinach, creamed corn, French onion soup, squash soup - anything and everything you'll need for tonight.

You start on your sauces, clumsily chopping garlic and shallots, then tossing them with bay leaves into pots with clarified butter. You realize too late that somebody used the last of the roasted red pepper puree without making more, and you need it for your roasted red pepper beurre blanc. You race to the walk-in and scoop up as many red bell peppers as your arms can carry. Under the broiler they go until their skins are black and crackling. You turn back to your sauces - CRAP! The garlic in your sauce pots seized the opportunity to burn while you stepped away. You scrape the mess into the trash and start over with fresh garlic and shallots, but not before glancing at the clock. 4:01pm. The first reservation of the night is at 4:30. Time is so not on your side.

In the next 29 minutes, you somehow manage to peel and puree the roasted peppers, whisk four pounds of butter into your sauces and strain them, fry up three huge buckets of fresh potato chips for the bar, stock up your station with raw ingredients (calamari, tuna, crab legs, marinated shrimp, etc), prep your garnishes, bake two sheet pans of parmesan herb croutons, and make three batches of mashed potatoes. You're melting butter in a saute pan the size of a trashcan lid for sauteed mushrooms when your printer starts chirping away. The first ticket of the night.

Your left hand reaches for the ticket as your right hand pulls peeled garlic cloves from a drawer and drops them into the mushroom pan. It took you a while, but you've learned the importance of multi-tasking in the kitchen. Every second counts. You give the garlic a good toss to coat it in butter while reading the ticket. You curse under your breath. Lobster tempura - the messiest, most annoying appetizer to make - is the first order of the night. Bad omen.

You're whisking club soda into the tempura batter and dredging your lobster tails when the sous chef appears to inform you that there's a special New Year's Eve plate you're going to be in charge of, and he needs to show you how to make it. You watch him demonstrate the dish while simultaneously frying up and plating your lobster tempura. The special NYE dish is a seafood plate - lobster (geez, what's with these people and lobster?), clams, mussels, shrimp and crab served with a puff pastry. The sous then hands you a hotel pan full of raw seafood and wishes you luck.

"Oh, by the way," he says over his shoulder as he walks away, "this dish is selling for seventy-five bucks tonight. So don't screw it up."

Shit.

You don't have time to wallow in self-pity at this point though, because your printer has already begun spitting out tickets at a furious pace. The rest of the night is nonstop madness. Your board consistently overflows with tickets, and the broiler guy is firing six and seven orders at a time just to keep you both out of the weeds. Twice you burn yourself badly - a splatter of hot oil here, a blast from the steamer there - but you won't even feel the pain until after the night is over. You simply don't have time.

While searing your hundredth Ahi tuna of the night, you manage to glance at the clock. You can't believe it. 11:00pm! Where did the night go? Suddenly you realize your back is killing you, and your hands ache from gripping tongs and flipping saute pans all night. You're tired. No... tired is an understatement. You're ready to drop.

The next hour stays busy, but the worst is over. Your board starts to look more manageable with less than a dozen tickets on it, gradually dwindling to five, then two. Finally you've got just one order left to fire, and you hear cheering from the dining room.

"Happy New Year!"

Horns and noisemakers go off. A waiter hands you a glass of champagne and slaps a party hat on your head. Chef walks down the line, patting everyone on the back and congratulating them on a job well done. He gets to you and grins. "Great work tonight."

You're dazed but thrilled. YOU DID IT! You suddenly feel as though you can do anything. You can't stop giggling as you send out the last dish of the night and start packing up your knives. You clean up your station, turn off your fryers and ovens and toss your apron and coat into the laundry chute, all the while smiling like an idiot.

As you drive home, you feel the throbbing on your hands and arms where you burned yourself. Your whole body feels as though it was run over by a train. Twice. Yet somehow, you don't care. You can't quit smiling. You'd do it all again in a heartbeat - and you will.... tomorrow.

One Egg Wonder

2009-12-28T13:44:00.000-08:00

So, I got the cutest kitchen tool EVER as a Christmas gift from Molly's mom and stepdad. Brightly colored skillets and spatulas shaped like animals are pretty cute and all, but seriously - this is the cutest thing I've ever seen.

It's an egg pan! Adorably tiny and the perfect size for frying up a single egg - which is all I ever want anyway. One of my favorite snacks of all time is just a single egg, decorated with cracked black pepper and fleur de sel. And maybe a little Tabasco sauce. Mmmmm. And it has the perfect name:

Haha... very fitting, considering my blog title, don't you think? :) Here's a picture of the One Egg Wonder next to my cast iron skillet (a gift from Molly), just to show the comparison of size.

And of course, I just had to cook an egg in it as soon as I had the chance....

Now THAT'S tasty.... and not in the Aunt Eleanor way! :)

What If

2009-12-25T23:56:00.000-08:00

God Bless EVERYONE - no exceptions!

2009-12-25T23:37:00.000-08:00

If you want to learn more, go to www.forthebibletellsmeso.org or www.youtube.com and search "for the bible tells me so."

My "KitchenAid Mixer" (or How My Family Nearly Gave Me a Heart Attack)

2009-12-24T07:49:00.000-08:00

Well, I arrived in Plano last night to the hugest surprise of my life! I was pretty convinced that I was getting a KitchenAid mixer from my parents for Christmas - basically because this is what they told me. "Hey, we're picking out a mixer. What color do you want?" And I was thrilled! A mixer! I'd be able to make homemade mayonnaise without even touching a whisk!

As soon as I arrived at my parents' house last night, they announced that we were all going out to eat phở. After almost six hours of driving, I was pretty hungry and thought that was a great idea. We grabbed our coats and headed for the garage.

"Oh," my mom said, "Your present is in the garage, and it's not wrapped. Just so you know."

I thought to myself, "Well, a mixer is pretty big."

I followed them into the garage and saw this:

(Imagine a big red bow on it, because there was one. Just not in this picture)

And of course my mom had to capture my reaction:

That's what complete shock looks like. Yes, I fell on the ground.

So today I get to clean out my old '98 Ford Contour - the car I've driven for 10 years - and pass it on to my brother. I am the proud new owner of a 2009 Honda Civic LX! It's beautiful. And I'm still a little in shock.

A big, big thank you to my WONDERFUL grandma and parents!!! I love you all.

Merry Christmas!

What Jenny's Eating Today Vol. 5

2009-12-04T09:59:00.001-08:00

Nutella on toast :)

They got the mojo boogie

2009-11-28T10:27:00.000-08:00

Tacos filled with shrimp sauteed in mojo de ajo (olive oil infused with tons of garlic and some chipotle chiles en adobo), zucchini, onions, cilantro and rice. Yum.

:)

2009-11-25T21:47:00.000-08:00

What Jenny's Eating Today Vol. 4

2009-11-25T09:52:00.000-08:00

My favorite way of dressing up a baked potato: a little dollop of sour cream, a sprinkle of shredded colby jack, a HUGE helping of pico de gallo and plenty of fresh green onions. So good. So, so good.

America's Next Top Model

2009-11-19T11:44:00.000-08:00

Gracie's new haircut.....

..... made her cold. So we clothed her.....

.... and all was well again.

Reason # 4,592 Why I'm Moving to Japan

2009-11-15T13:46:00.000-08:00

Because they have these:

No, your eyes do not deceive you. These are in fact Cheetos covered in a creamy strawberry coating.

*sigh*

Potential Christmas gift, anyone?

Fun with Dry Heat Cooking

2009-10-31T15:30:00.000-07:00

Well, I had another fun-filled day of Basic Food Prep. Today's lesson focused on the various styles of dry heat cooking using conduction: sautéing, pan-frying, stir-frying, searing, etc.

Here's a "before" shot of the pork I was given. (I also had a chicken breast, but it was finishing in the oven when I took this picture.) We were supposed to use these to produce examples of sautéing, pan-frying and grilling.

This is my mise en place for my breaded, pan-fried pork. You can't tell from the picture, but I seasoned that flour on the left really well - lots of garlic powder, pepper, salt, etc... it made for some yummy breading!

This was my presentation plate.

I also stir-fried some vegetables...

I'm still working on making a uniform julienne. It's not terribly difficult to achieve, but I think I try too hard to chop quickly (like Chef does) and sometimes end up with inconsistent sizes. These turned out pretty good though.

Next week I think we're working with various cuts of beef. Should be fun!

Happy Halloween :)

What Jenny's Eating Today Vol. 3

2009-10-30T18:19:00.001-07:00

Two whole bulbs of garlic roasted in olive oil until soft and sweet, then finished with generous amounts of fleur de sel and fresh ground black pepper. I know it sounds insane, but when I'm craving garlic, I tend to go a little crazy. Spread like butter on simple water crackers, this was absolutely heavenly.

I will most definitely reek of garlic for the next week or so. Oh, well. A small price to pay for such indulgence.

Smut for Gardeners

2009-10-15T11:51:00.000-07:00

It started out as a pretty unremarkable day. I had class all morning, The Best Tacos in America for lunch and then a refreshing peach Fresca while I browsed through recipes online. I found a couple of recipes that sounded especially good, and one of them called for fresh oregano. This excited me because I happen to have an oregano plant that I've been trying my best not to kill. This also reminded me that I hadn't watered said oregano in a couple of days (or any of my plants, for that matter), so I took a cup of water out to the planters on my balcony to see who was thirsty.

I spotted something bright yellow hiding behind the oregano, and at first I thought it was a piece of plastic. Maybe part of a child's toy or something? Although how it got all the way up onto my balcony and in my planter was beyond me.

As I got closer, I realized it was a mushroom! A big, bright yellow mushroom. Check it out:

Only this dude wasn't alone. Nope. He brought friends.

Lots of friends.

Lots and LOTS of friends.

Yep. Lots and lots of sick little yellow phallus-shaped fungus friends. Awesome.

I may never eat oregano again.

My Day in Pictures

2009-10-10T14:15:00.000-07:00

Just wanted to post a few pictures to show you guys what classes are like. Nothing too exciting, so don't get your hopes up... Here we go!

This is part of my classroom, and these are some of my classmates making a mad dash for the ingredients station so they don't get stuck with the bruised shallots or the cracked eggs or the too-small lemons.

This is my work station. Part of it. Just my cutting board, actually. And my butter. We were making beurre blanc today for a pasta dish. It's a creamy sauce that calls for a whole pound of butter. Most excellent.

Whisking the butter into beurre blanc...

That's about half an hour before I discovered that I might be getting carpal tunnel from all the whisking. Half an hour of whisking is unpleasant. Even if you're ambidextrous... which I'm not.

Those are my classmates and their butter stockpiles.

This is my finished product. Pasta with tomato sauce (from scratch) and beurre blanc, topped with parsley, basil and parmesan. (I stopped taking pictures after the beurre blanc because I realized I needed to actually start cooking something in order to get credit for the day, so you don't get to see the rest of the steps. Oh well!)

Yum :)

The Durian Experiment (or "How I Nearly Killed Myself on a Wednesday Evening")

2009-10-08T09:17:00.000-07:00

Last weekend was ACL (for you non-Texans, that's Austin City Limits... a pretty killer music festival that Austin puts on every year), and Molly got us tickets, so we went to Austin and stayed with my lovely aunt Theresa, who happens to live there. Sadly, I had some camera issues that weekend and did not end up taking any pictures at the festival (you just have to trust me when I say that I really was there and had lots of fun... I even won a free T-shirt by collecting recyclables!).

While visiting my aunt (who is my mom's sister and thus Vietnamese), I got to enjoy such Vietnamese delicacies as moon cake with hot tea and homemade pho. It was like being home. It also made me all sentimental, and I found myself reminiscing about my childhood a lot. I remembered that when I was little, my mom would often get huge, spiky specimens of whole fresh durian from the Asian market and crack those things open, flooding the whole house with the smell of sewers. The smell was almost intolerable, but I remember watching my mom (and her mom, and any Vietnamese guests we had over) absolutely devour it like Willie Nelson and Snoop Dogg might devour Chex-Mix on April twentieth. I never did try the stuff, even though my mom was always trying to convince me to. I just couldn't get past the smell.

Maybe culinary school has made me more open-minded about trying new things or maybe I'm just getting more masochistic with age, but I suddenly found myself eager to try the smelliest fruit in the world. And I told my aunt as much. Being the super sweet person that she is, she sent me back home to San Antonio with my very own durian with which I could stink up my apartment. I was thrilled!

Since durian season ended back in June or July, the one I brought home was frozen. I let it thaw in the fridge for a couple of days before taking a crack at it. (No pun intended.)

Enrobed in yellow plastic mesh, it was truly glorious:

(A little sidenote: Before I moved into this apartment, some moron decided to apply thick layers of paint to the non-porous counters in the kitchen, so now it's peeling away in places. My counters really aren't filthy. I promise.)

(A sidenote on the side of that sidenote: Check out the groovy Ulu knife my parents brought me back from Alaska!)

Anyway... this thing was bigger than my head. Seriously. And although it was odorless when frozen, as it began to thaw, I could detect that unmistakable stench more and more. Here I am giving it some love before hacking it to pieces:

I don't really recommend kissing a durian. It is, after all, covered in what can basically be described as giant, bloodthirsty thorns. Ow.

My original plan was just to saw through the thing with a serrated bread knife.

Did I mention this thing is SPIKY? It was so sharp that I couldn't steady it properly enough to saw through it, so I quickly aborted that idea and tried a different tactic: using both hands and all my strength to just shove the knife right through it.

Fortunately, I'm not strong AT ALL, and it took me about half a second to realize this was not the safest or smartest route to Durian Nirvana anyway. Abort. Retry. I was getting pretty frustrated by this point and just wanted to get the darn thing open so I could taste it already, blog about it, and go to bed. That's when I remembered..... the ethnicity advantage!!!!

Do not - I repeat - DO NOT try this at home, kids. If it weren't for my ninja skills, I could have seriously hurt myself. But since I'm half-ninja (not full ninja... my dad's white), it was all gravy.

As pictured above, after unleashing my ninja fury, I was able to make a nice dent in the durian. At this point, I decided to revert back to the sawing method, this time with protection in the form of a brightly colored oven mitt.

Ingenious. Then....*drumroll*..... the moment of truth:

Is it just me or does that look freakishly similar to the cross-sections of human bodies they have at those Body Worlds exhibits? *shudder*

I was somewhat disappointed. The smell wasn't disappointing at all - that sucker REEKED of moldy community showers and rotting corpses and overflowing toilets in truckstops whose diners serve nothing but beans and gin. It was BAD. I think it was Anthony Bourdain who said that after eating durian, "your breath will smell like you've been French-kissing your dead grandmother." Yep.

The disappointing part was that it was only partially thawed (which in hindsight probably explained why it was so ridiculously hard to open), and so it didn't look quite like the creamy, custardy fresh durian my mom used to enjoy. Ah, well. I would try it nonetheless. I managed to dig out a nice chunk that seemed to be mostly thawed.

Cautious but intrigued.

Okay, despite the look on my face in the photo above, I have to admit that it wasn't half bad. The texture was sort of mushy and slimy... kind of like old scrambled eggs that were placed in Tupperware while still hot and then stuck in the fridge to collect condensation. The taste was pretty good, though - sweet, sort of mango-esque, with a certain milkiness that assured me that had it been fresh rather than frozen and partially thawed, my durian would have been extremely creamy. Like the custardy stuff my mom loved. *sigh* So close to that experience I craved, yet so far away.

Molly was then forced to sample the fruit, mainly to avoid ridicule.

She wasn't much of a fan. It was okay, though... more durian for me!

I do hope that one day I'll get a chance to sample fresh durian. The Durian Experiment taught me that even when surrounded by the lingering smell of cat pee coupled with Amy Winehouse's unwashed laundry, I still want to experience whatever it is about this fruit that makes people go completely ape-shit over it. And I will. One day, I will.

One-pot Wonder and Durian Fruit.... Friends for life! ^_^

What Jenny's Eating Today Vol. 2

2009-09-24T20:12:00.000-07:00

So, here's the scoop. Molly goes off to her evening classes 3 days a week with nothing but a pathetic ham and cheese sandwich for dinner. And so after a couple weeks of watching her do this, I began to realize that I could use my culinary skills to send her off with something better to eat. Something more enticing. More satisfying. And so, using the few ingredients we had on hand in our pantry/fridge (dried pasta, cream, zucchini, an aging bell pepper, onions, garlic, and some red pepper tapenade), I made a big pot of veggie pasta with a creamy red pepper sauce.
Now, this picture does NOT do this dish justice. This picture looks like a mess of blech. But in person, it was creamy goodness with slices of sauteed zucchini and caramelized onions and bell peppers. I minced some garlic and tossed it in there too. Added a dash of fresh lemon juice, and voila!

I packed a tupperware full of the stuff for Moll to take to class with her, and I ate the rest for dinner myself. It was delicious, if I do say so myself. It's amazing what a little cream will do for pasta and veggies. Mmmm. And that's what Jenny's eating today.

Stingrays and tigers and fish..... oh my!

2009-09-22T15:14:00.000-07:00

YAY! I now have a new camera battery and charger (thanks Justin!!), which means I can finally upload all the pictures that have been hiding on my old dead camera battery. Get excited....

So, several weeks ago, I made another trip up to Houston to visit one of my favorite people in the world. We went to this place called the Aquarium.

It's part restaurant, part carnival, part... well... aquarium. It was actually really neat and unlike any restaurant I'd ever been to before. They even had a little room where you could pet live stingrays!

The stingrays were small, docile by nature, and had even had their stingers removed, so they were really completely harmless. (By the way, I'm not sure if the removal of their spines/stingers is painful for them or not, but I know they supposedly grow back... anyone know more about this??) What amazed me was how domesticated these particular stingrays seemed. They actually swam right up to our hands, as if wanting to be petted. And they were incredibly soft - like the plushest velvety blanket you've ever felt. Truly amazing.

After the stingray adventure, we had another pretty amazing encounter... with a white tiger! Now, I'm not all for putting wild animals in cages and using them as exhibits. But even so, I have to admit that seeing a white tiger in person was absolutely awe-inspiring. The enclosure in which the tiger lived consisted of glass walls surrounding a large living space, complete with wading pond and a bit of room to run around. Certainly no match for its natural habitat, but I digress.

At first, this particular tiger seemed very calm and sort of bored. Almost comically so.

We were so enamored by his seemingly serene demeanor that we felt compelled to take pictures with him. He tolerated us.

For a while, at least. The photo above was actually taken about 2.5 seconds before that serene, beautiful tiger hurtled itself against the glass wall and turned into:

Okay, so I couldn't find a good picture of an attacking white tiger. But you get the point. If not for that glass window, myself and my dear friend would have been tiger food.

Isn't it funny how quickly we can forget that we're really not the top of the animal world? A few steel bars, a thick glass window... and suddenly they're entertainment and the respect they deserve is taken away. This entry was really not intended to take serious turn, but oh well. What do you guys think?

Am I back in 3rd grade now? Really?

2009-09-10T15:24:00.000-07:00

So, this morning in my Purchasing for the Hospitality Industry class, I had a major flashback. To about 18 years ago. It was scary.

In this particular class, we have daily quizzes, as well as homework assignments that are collected at the beginning of each class. No big deal. The quizzes are simple, usually multiple choice, and taken straight out of the reading we're supposed to do in our textbook. Almost word for word. So, the prof walks in, asks everyone to pass their papers to the center aisle, which he then strolls down, collecting each row's papers as he goes. Here is my nifty Microsoft Paint sketch of the scene:

As you can see, I had taken a seat at the front of the room, thinking that way I wouldn't miss any of the action AND could ask questions without having to project my voice. Unfortunately, I had also taken a seat right next to Nosy Nancy. I don't actually know Nosy Nancy's real name. But if it's not Nancy, it's definitely Nosy Something. Lola, maybe. Or Marjorie. Whatever her name is, when I passed my homework to her so that she could then pass it to the person to her right and then on to the professor, this girl had the nerve to sit there holding my paper next to hers for a good 30 seconds, CLEARLY comparing answers. AND THEN..... she actually got out a pen and CHANGED ONE OF HER ANSWERS before passing both of our papers on.

I was absolutely appalled. Shit like this happens in elementary schools everywhere (as a former teacher AND a former elementary school student, I know this for a fact), but in COLLEGE?! Geez. Needless to say, I spent a good deal of the rest of class attempting to set Nosy Nancy on fire with my eyes.

** By the way, that was not the first time this happened. Last week, I sat beside the same girl, and I remember her holding onto my homework AND quiz for far too long before passing them on. Granted, she didn't actually use my answers to correct her own papers then, but she sure did today. I guess I really should have known better than to sit by her a second time. Oh, well. Definitely not making the same mistake thrice!!

Benny Lava

2009-09-06T21:48:00.000-07:00

This video is an endless source of entertainment for me.

New Duds

2009-09-03T13:57:00.000-07:00

These were taken with a camera phone, since of course my camera is still out of commission. A little blurry, but you get the picture. No pun intended.

The whole get-up. Hard to tell here, but the pants are black and white houndstooth.
The props were Molly's idea, not mine. Goofy, I know.

WhiskMaster.... Hollandaise sauces everywhere, beware!!!!

Poulet Rôti à la Normande..... a Revelation

2009-09-01T17:26:00.001-07:00

So... I recently came across the recipe for Poulet Rôti à la Normande in my food/cooking reading, and for whatever reason, it struck me as something I HAD to make. RIGHT NOW. So I did. Or attempted to, at least.

As fancypants as the name sounds, this dish is basically just a whole roasted chicken, stuffed and basted with cream. For me, the hardest part was trussing the aforementioned chicken. This is not to say that trussing a chicken is an especially difficult task to undertake.... just that the recipe as a whole is delightfully simple. I paid almost 14 bucks for a big spool of butcher's twine, then went in search of my chicken. Unfortunately (or fortunately, depending on who you're talking to), Central Market only carries chickens that do NOT have the handy little giblet sacks packed away inside their cavities. This meant that I had to purchase a separate little tub of chicken gizzards. Gross, I know. My inner vegetarian was curled up in a corner, sobbing, as I made this purchase.

I got home, chopped up those little gizzard suckers (the recipe calls for a gizzard, a heart, and a liver... since I had only gizzards, I just chopped up a little extra), tossed them in a pan with some butter, and sauteed them up. Added some minced shallots, more butter (Julia Child would have approved), and then set that to the side to cool. While my gizzard concoction was cooling, I put some breadcrumbs, parsley, MORE butter, and a hefty amount of cream cheese in a mixing bowl, then added the sauteed gizzards/shallots and mixed it all up into a chunky sort of paste. Thus, my Poulet Rôti à la Normande stuffing was born.

Next, I took my chicken friend and loaded up its cavity with my stuffing. Then came the trussing part. A lot of fooling around with the butcher's twine ensued until I figured it looked halfway like it was supposed to, then I schmeared lots of soft butter all over the thing and popped it in the oven to roast. And roast it did. For the next hour, my whole apartment smelled absolutely heavenly.

After an hour of roasting, I removed most of the fat drippings from the pan, then started the basting process, which consists of soaking the bird with salted cream every 3 to 4 minutes for the remainder of the cooking time (about 20 minutes). The cream dripped and puddled at the bottom of the pan, and it took on an alarmingly curdled appearance, but my recipe warned me of that, so I didn't think too much of it.

When the hour and 20 was up, I transferred the chicken to a platter and boiled down the creamy drippings with some added stock and a few drops of lemon juice. And that's Poulet Rôti à la Normande in a nutshell.

After plating up and tasting it all, the verdict was: YUM. I especially loved that creamy sauce.... SO freaking good. And the stuffing was unbelievably rich and delicious. I definitely will make this again soon, tweaking things a little here and there (to suit my budget).

Wish I could have posted a picture, but alas.......

Woe is me...

2009-09-01T15:38:00.000-07:00

... I lost my camera battery charger :(

I've searched and searched and can't find it anywhere. This means two things:

1. I have to shell out sixty bucks to get a new one

and

2. I can't upload and show you all the wonderful pictures I've been taking (namely my stellar chef uniform and the Poulet Rôti à la Normande I'm making right now).

BOOOOO.

Back to school...

2009-08-25T10:35:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I had my first two classes of culinary school, Intro to Foods and Intro to Management in Hospitality and Tourism. I started the day by getting to campus approximately four hours early so that I could get my picture taken for my student ID, pick up my student parking permit, buy my textbooks, and other such business. I also ordered a chef's coat (complete with St. Philip's logo AND my name embroidered on it) and black and white houndstooth chef's pants. I also bought a funny little paper chef's hat, which is part of the required uniform as well. It's pretty goofy-looking.

Intro to Foods was pretty interesting. The textbook for this course is HUGE, weighs a good 10 lbs, and is chock full of my favorite thing in the world to read: RECIPES!!! This is the same textbook required for two of my other classes, Basic Food Prep and Basic Food Prep Lab (both of which are on Saturdays), which is nice and convenient. So far we're just talking about the history of cooking, grande cuisine, classical cuisine, Escoffier, the French, etc. etc.

I went into Intro to Management with the assumption that I would be bored out of my mind. Happily, this was not the case. The professor (he wasn't a chef) was extremely animated, making the 3-hour lecture (yes, THREE HOUR LECTURE) go by pretty fast. He happens to be a pastor at some church in downtown SA, so he's got that slightly-deranged, wild-hand-waving, Hallelujah way of talking. I suspect that a few weeks into school, this could become difficult to tolerate. But for now, I find him and his "sermons" entertaining.

Today's class was Purchasing: Selection and Procurement for the Hospitality Industry. *Yawn*

Tomorrow I have Intro to Foods again, then Friday off. Saturday's schedule is packed, though - Basic Food Prep Lecture and Lab (that's 6 hours right there), followed by Professionalism in the Hospitality Industry. Hopefully my uniform will have arrived by then!

What Jenny's Eating Today Vol. 1

2009-08-23T15:07:00.000-07:00

Last Sunday when my parents came to visit, Mom brought me, among other things (including a watermelon, eighty homemade eggrolls, an insane amount of banh mi, and a 14 year old Yorkshire terrier) about six or seven bags of these:

These crunchy little buggers are basically just ramen noodles broken up into pieces and labeled "Crispy Noodle Snack." They come in a variety of flavors, but I only have two in my possession: Chicken Flavored and Spicy Flavored (which tastes like a slightly kicked up version of the Chicken Flavored).
They are surprisingly addictive. (Even now, I am shoveling fistfuls of this stuff into my mouth, forcing myself to type with one hand.)

I started to read the Nutrition Facts on the back of the bag (a habit I think everyone should pick up when eating anything prepackaged), but actually had to stop because I just didn't want it to ruin them for me. (Believe me, it would have... and yes, they're that good.) All I saw was the allergy warning, and that was enough:

May contain soybeans, wheat, tuna, Japanese Spanish mackerel, black seabream, egg, milk, peanuts, shrimp, crab.

Holy Flying Sea Monkeys, Batman! What IS this stuff?! And Japanese Spanish mackerel? Really?

School Supplies

2009-08-23T13:17:00.000-07:00

It's that time of the year again. The end of summer. The end of lazy days by the pool, pickle flavored sno-cones, and ignoring school zone signs. I remember back when the end of summer meant one thing: school supply shopping.

It was always a big event in our family. Mom would load us kids into the gargantuan Oldsmobile, lists in hand, and we'd head to either Wal-Mart or Target for the afternoon. Once there, we would roam through aisle after aisle of notebooks, folders, 3-ring binders, wide-ruled paper, pens and pencils until our cart was full and each item on our lists was crossed off. Back at home, everything was sorted into "Jennifer's Pile" and "Terrance's Pile." Then came my favorite part of the whole ordeal - the labeling. I would stick a label onto each notebook, folder and binder, assigning one of each to a specific class (math, science, etc.) The prettiest notebook (always either purple or blue - my favorite colors at the time) would be labeled "English", since that was my favorite subject. If there happened to be a brown or otherwise boring notebook in the mix, that would end up labeled "Math" - the bane of my existence and, I was convinced, the portal through which evil enters our universe.

Now, with the end of summer upon me, I once again find myself school supply shopping - but not for 3-ring binders and #2 pencils. Here's my list this year:

10" French knife
8" bread knife
3" oyster knife
paring knife
boning knife
apple corer
pastry brush
14" pastry bag
21" pastry bag
pastry tips (plain and open star)
13" tongs
wire whip
pastry blender
towels
measuring cups
measuring spoons
dough cutter
thermometer
vegetable peeler
zester
baker's spatula
black spoon
white apron
rubber bowl scraper
13.5" scraper
9.5" scraper
paper chef's hat
double-breasted white chef's coat
black or houndstooth chef's pants

Is it just me or does it seem a little excessive to require THREE different kinds of scrapers? We were all born with perfectly good scrapers built in - they're called index fingers. Geez.

Anyway, wish me luck finding all this crap before Saturday (that's the day of my 6-hour Basic Food Prep class/lab. On weekdays I get to sit through lectures rather than be in the kitchen, so I won't need that stuff then).

Happy End of Summer!

Catch up Time (Not to be confused with the tomato-based condiment)

2009-08-22T12:38:00.000-07:00

I'm sorry. I know it's been forever since I've made a post. I was under the impression that a week or two had passed, but evidently it's been more than a month. Oops. Time to play catch up!

I recently moved to San Antonio. Kind of random. It's been incredibly hectic so far, especially since within days of moving in, I suddenly had the brilliant idea to enroll in school full-time. In case anyone was wondering, deciding to go to school just three weeks before classes start is NOT as fun as it may sound. I don't remember having this much trouble enrolling at A&M. Probably because my parents helped a lot and also because I did it months - rather than weeks - before the start of school. I'm not usually a last-minute person. I like to plan things out, and I really like it when my plans work out just the way I planned them. Last-minute people suck. (No offense to anyone out there who might enjoy the thrill of running around begging for deadline extensions and being spoken to like you're an idiot.) Last-minute people scare me. I think it's the lack of structure. Either that or the wild, desperate look in their eyes. I stood in line with a lot of last-minute people during my own uncharacteristic last-minuteness these past couple of weeks, and I've got to say that their desperation was palpable. "Please pleeeeease can't you do something to help me register for classes? I know they're all full now, but can't you please just squeeze one more chair in or something?" as they slip the registration advisor a twenty. I shouldn't be judging anyone though. Maybe, like me, they all just moved into town and discovered the existence of St. Phillip's College and this explains their last-minuteness. Maybe.

After countless trips to campus and hours of standing in line after line and being sent up and down stairs from Records and Registration to Financial Aid and back again, I am finally (almost) ready for classes to start. They start on Monday. That's the day after tomorrow. Eeek!

By the way, in case anyone is wondering or even cares, I'm going to school for a degree in Culinary Arts. This doesn't mean I won't go back to teaching one day.... I just can't stop thinking about cooking, that's all. So I plan to learn as much as I can while I'm in school, and if I land a job as a chef, GREAT! If I end up deciding that cooking isn't the best career for me, I figure I can always go back to teaching AND I will have gained some truly valuable knowledge about something that I love to do. :)

More later!

What's red and black and lives on a jalapeno plant?

2009-06-10T15:52:00.000-07:00

I couldn't tell if its wings were hanging out like that because it was injured or because it just hadn't folded them in properly. I hope it was the latter. Below is a picture of my peppers, destined to be pico de gallo or stuffed with cheese and grilled. Haven't decided yet.

Gardening for apartment-dwellers

2009-05-17T14:53:00.000-07:00

A few months ago, I was feeling sort of Suzy Homemaker and decided to make a trip to Home Depot to see what I could find. I picked up some potting soil, a couple of planters, a jalapeno plant and a few herbs. Went home and set myself up a little garden. I didn't have very high hopes for it, since I've had some bad luck with gardening in the past. (I did NOT inherit my mother's green thumb.) Surprisingly, my little plants are actually thriving.

The herbs. Their names are Ty, Ory and Rose. I love them.

Thyme

Oregano

Rosemary (my personal favorite, but don't tell Ty and Ory)

My jalapeno plant's first blossom. I feel like a proud mommy.

This gardening thing isn't that hard after all. :-)

Newest addition to my dinner rotation....

2009-05-02T10:59:00.000-07:00

Cheese tortellini with asparagus and a Parmesan cream sauce. YUM.

The Dumbest Car I've Ever Seen

2009-04-11T22:30:00.000-07:00

So... I went to Houston the weekend before last to visit one of the best people in the world, and we went to the Oceanaire Seafood Room at the Galleria. Had a couple dozen ethereal oysters, some smoked salmon, a tuna tartare tower that was as much art as it was food, and then as we were about to leave, one of the waitstaff informed us that THIS was parked outside the restaurant:
If that's not the most hideous automobile you've ever laid eyes on, I will eat my own liver. Tacky doesn't even begin to describe it. You can barely tell in the picture, but the front of the car was emblazoned with smurf-blue flames. It was like a nightmare on wheels. And on that note, happy Easter to all! I am going to bed.

The Hawaii Chair

2009-02-21T13:33:00.000-08:00

I remember seeing this thing on "Ellen" a while back and being convinced it was a gag...

Haircut woes

2009-02-20T22:14:00.000-08:00

So.... I cut my hair. Again. I drove three hours to Plano tonight to visit my dad for his birthday, and when my mom saw me, the first thing she said was, "Oh my god! You look so strange!"

(Since the last time she saw me, I've cut my hair about three inches... it's just below my ears now.)

She actually told me she hopes it will grow out soon. I'm hurt. But I won't let this ruin my weekend. I brought my camera along, so I'll try to stay busy by taking lots of pictures....

More fun with Kewpie mayo

2009-02-16T07:41:00.000-08:00

In my last post, I mentioned Kewpie mayonnaise, and I thought I'd talk a little more about it. This stuff deserves a much wider fan-base than it currently seems to have.

It originated in Japan, and I've only been able to find it at specialty Asian markets. It comes in a very soft, clear plastic squeeze bottle with a red cap. It's basically a lot like regular mayo, but I think it contains rice vinegar, which gives it a savory quality that Hellmann's and Miracle Whip don't offer. It's incredible mixed with a little soy sauce or Sriracha, then used as a dipping sauce for crispy veggies or chik'n nuggets. It's also surprisingly delicious spread on cornbread with a few dashes of Tabasco. I've tried it with almost every food that I've consumed in the past month or so since I first discovered this stuff.

I especially love it on boiled eggs with few pieces of tomato on the side:

... and it put a big smile on my spicy black bean burgers too:

(Take a couple of Boca brand black bean burgers, bake them in oven for 15 minutes, sprinkle with shredded cheese, then stick them under the broiler for 30 seconds or however long it takes for the cheese to melt and bubble up a bit)

My latest addiction

2009-02-15T14:41:00.001-08:00

For the past few weeks, I've been trying to pack a sandwich for lunch at work because the cafeteria food is absolutely horrifying (imagine ground beef, gobs of cheese, and corn tortillas all layered into a greasy casserole... tasty!). My sandwich of choice:

Slices of fresh cucumber, tomato and red onion....

A thick slab of firm tofu, drained, sprinkled with soy sauce, and sauteed until nicely browned on both sides....

Pile everything onto two toasted slices of Ezekiel bread, add lettuce, a slice of soy cheese and some Kewpie mayonnaise, and you've got a lunch fit for a queen...

.... or a preschool teacher :)

College Station Wildlife

2009-02-07T09:55:00.000-08:00

I try to take Gracie on daily walks, and our favorite place to go is Brison Park, which is a ten minute walk from my apartment. It's a tiny park that consists of a couple small bridges and lots of grass and trees. Gracie loves it. Along the way to the park, we always pass one particular house that has an interesting menagerie in its backyard: four Chihuahuas of various color and temperment and two extremely friendly pot-bellied pigs. The pigs, needless to say, are my favorite.

This is one of them. The other pig was hiding the day I brought my camera, so I don't have any pictures of it. It looks pretty much the same as this one, minus the black head. I mean, it has a head, just not a black one. Its head is the same pinkish-white color as the rest of its body. The black-headed one seems a bit feistier to me than the other one. I might just be imagining that, though. I wonder about their personalities whenever we walk past them. Sometimes I wonder about their favorite foods, their piggy dreams and whether or not they enjoy sharing a yard with four Chihuahuas.

Upon arriving at the park, we're usually greeted by these gals:

They're a flock of six guinea fowl (we just call them "The Fowl"), and they roam free throughout Brison park and the surrounding neighborhood. Gracie is fascinated by them, but of course we never get too close. I think Gracie's idea of making friends is not quite the same as theirs, and I wouldn't want to scare the little ladies!

Pickled Lemon

2009-01-29T16:57:00.000-08:00

A couple of weeks ago, I went to Austin to visit my aunt Theresa (my mom's younger sister). My parents drove up for the weekend too. My mom and aunt were snacking on THIS all weekend:

Pickled lemon. Since lemons are already sour, the "pickled" part struck me as redundant. Ingredients: lemon and sugar. Hmm... well, if you say so. That sounded pretty tasty to me, so when my aunt offered me one, I saw no reason to decline.

Then again, I had not actually yet seen a Chanh Cam Thao pickled lemon:

For the love of all things good and holy, will somebody please explain to me why something as innocent as lemons and sugar can somehow turn into this. I half expected it to growl at me and bare its teeth. Needless to say, I did not end up sampling a pickled lemon.

Oh darn.

Dog Biscuits

2009-01-09T18:02:00.000-08:00

My dad once ate one of those generic bone-shaped dog biscuits. On purpose. I couldn't have been older than five or six so the memory is a bit hazy, but it's definitely there. Right alongside those other distant memories like my first kindergarten soccer game, the taste of blood in my mouth when aggressive wiggling resulted in a suddenly lost tooth, and the feeling of comfort that my security pillow gave me.

But yes, as I was saying, my dad ate a dog biscuit. I don't know what point he was trying to make – maybe that they were edible for humans as well as dogs, maybe just to entertain us kids on a restless evening – but I specifically remember standing barefoot in my nightgown on the sunny yellow kitchen linoleum and watching him bite into one of the little biscuits that were supposed to be for our Chihuahuas, Preston and Leslie. He chewed thoughtfully and swallowed.

His one-word reaction: “Tasty!”

John Casserole

2009-01-03T14:36:00.000-08:00

I have an unreasonable aversion to kidney beans. I recognize that it's unreasonable because I've tried them, and I admit that they're not half bad. But I would still rather go hungry than eat them. Now that I'm an alleged adult with a bit of cooking experience under my belt, I understand that kidney beans are thusly named because their shape resembles that of the internal organ, not because they are made of or taste like kidneys. When I was a child, my parents tried to explain this to me, but their words fell on deaf ears. I felt sure that they would taste like guts, whatever guts tasted like. I would not touch them.

Some random housewife came up with a casserole recipe involving egg noodles, chunky tomato sauce, ground beef and a shocking amount of kidney beans and ended up publishing it in a cookbook that was later purchased/used by my dad’s aunt Eleanor. The woman's husband, whose name was John, apparently not only found the bean concoction to be edible but actually liked it, and so she christened it John Casserole. Clearly a very creative woman. I mean, come on – she had the ingenuity to take a basic spaghetti recipe, switch the pasta shape, and then add that special ingredient that we never knew spaghetti was missing – beans. Tons of them. Enough so that every bite taken would have a bean-to-everything-else ratio of approximately 35:1. God bless her.

Somehow the recipe was passed on to my dad, who convinced my mother to add it to her dinner rotation. I hated it. Nothing about John Casserole appealed to me. I had not yet learned to appreciate tomatoes, and I found ground beef to be little more than a dry, bland filler-type food. And then there were the beans. Even though I was young and had yet to cook a single meal myself, I just knew that there was something inherently wrong about putting that many beans in any one dish. Almost criminal. It seemed like the work of a deranged person, and it scared me. Food was supposed to make sense. John Casserole did not make sense to me.

I remember the first time I watched my parents prepare it. I surveyed the ingredients, cautious but intrigued. “What are those?” I asked, peering over the counter into the dish of beans soaking in water.

“Kidney beans!” was my dad's jovial reply.

“What do they taste like?”

My dad shrugged. “Like other beans. But kidney beans are especially good.” He paused and chuckled. “They're tasty.”

Years later, I would learn that my great-aunt Eleanor, who often cooked for my dad and his siblings when they were children, had a habit of referring to kid-unfriendly food (boiled spinach, peas, beets, etc.) as “tasty” in an attempt to get the kids to try the food. “Tasty” was not a positive description, like “delicious” or “yummy.” It simply meant that the food had a taste, and the taster could decide whether that taste was decent or disgusting.

Hot Dogs and Garlic Salt

2009-01-03T12:20:00.000-08:00

It was a lazy weekend afternoon, and I was seven years old. I had just spent the entire morning playing hard outdoors, circling the cul-de-sac on my pink and white Barbie rollerskates and trying to teach myself to come to a stop without leaping off the sidewalk onto someone's lawn. Sweaty and invigorated, I burst into the cool quiet of the kitchen to see what my mother was doing. She had something simmering in a pot on the stove and was rummaging through her spice cabinet, humming a church hymn.

“What are you making?” I inquired while trying to simultaneously scratch a scab on my knee and swat a fly that had managed to follow me indoors.

“Dinner for my girl,” she replied. My mother's voice was teasing, which always seemed to emphasize her Vietnamese accent. She glanced down at me with a fond smile.

“What is that?” I asked

She had pulled a small container of some seasoning from the depths of the spice cabinet and was shaking it generously onto a plate of raw chicken breasts. It looked like salt (which I loved) with tiny flecks of yellow in it.

“Garlic salt,” she said, turning to me and holding her hand palm-side up. I copied her, and she shook the container lightly over my palm. I licked the tip of my finger and gently dipped it in the garlic salt, then transferred the tiny grains to my tongue.

It was magnificent.

The garlic salt dissolved faster in my mouth than regular table salt (possibly because its pungency made my salivary glands go haywire), leaving behind a savory afterglow that vaguely reminded me of ramen noodle soup. After running my tongue along every crevice of my palm until the saltiness had been licked clean away, I held my hand out for more.

“No, you need to eat something,” she told me. “You can't just eat salt!”

Ha! How wrong she was! Yet sadly her words were true, because I couldn't do what she wouldn't allow. No one seemed to understand my total devotion to salt, my craving for it. If permitted, I could easily have consumed an entire shaker of salt – slowly savoring it fleck by little fleck until my tongue was raw. I felt I could never have enough.

As if sensing my plight from his station by the grill in the backyard, my father came into the house bearing an aluminum foil-covered platter. The smoky-sweet scent of grilled meat wafted from beneath the foil. “Lunch is ready!” he hollered, even though hollering was unnecessary because we were less than twenty feet away.

I watched him set the platter on the kitchen table, wary. If it was steak, I would be in trouble. Steak was evil. When eating a bite of steak, the first two chews were acceptably flavorful, but after that it morphed into a bland, gum-like substance that made swallowing it impossible. It was like chewing on a wad of matted fur. Or so I imagined.

As luck would have it, my father came bearing hot dogs, not steak. I breathed an audible sigh of relief and allowed him to plate up a serving for me. Nestled within a soft bun, the hot dog seemed sad and lonely, but condiments were an issue for me. Ketchup tasted good but soaked the bun and left it undesirably mushy. Mustard was a joke – a flavor so terrible I was convinced that mustard fans must have been brainwashed at some point in their lives. Sauerkraut and relish were “acquired tastes” that I had yet to acquire, and the chili/cheese combo endorsed by my brother held no appeal for me. Too messy, too soggy, too much. I contemplated my unadorned hot dog for a moment before realizing that a new, extremely enticing condiment had just been introduced to my life.

Without asking or waiting for my parents' approval, I took my plate from the table and went directly for the garlic salt that my mother had left on the counter by the stove. I remember the weight of it in my hands as I twirled the lid off and sprinkled it carefully onto my naked hot dog. Decorated with the garlic salt, it resembled a sunburnt appendage with some strange spotty disease. I didn't care. Back at the kitchen table, I ignored my parents' nauseated expressions, sat down with my creation and took a large bite.

Heaven.

Food Porn

2008-12-27T08:00:00.000-08:00

We had sushi for dinner last night. I'm a horrible vegetarian. It was a buffet, so of course I had four times as much food as my stomach is built to hold. We started with the soup, then hit up the buffet line. My favorites are the fish eggs (masago/tobiko):

If you enjoy the sensation of tiny liquid-filled balls popping between your teeth when you chew, coupled with steadily rising uneasiness and a vague sense that you should not actually be consuming what's in your mouth, I highly recommend this.

I was definitely not a troubled child

2008-12-25T18:39:00.000-08:00

Earlier this afternoon, completely out of nowhere, my mother pulled out this:

This Lenten Journel was an assignment I completed while in first grade. I was seven and apparently a pretty typical little kid. Maybe a little ahead of my time fashion-wise, what with the lime green plaid/indigo polka dots combo on that heart, but let's call that "creativity." I actually like the fact that even at that age I was already defying convention by making up my own version of the rainbow. Screw ROYGBV! I'll do what I want! And those "clouds" above the rainbow? Let's take a closer look:

Is it just me or does that cloud creature look an awful lot like this thing?

Anyway, against my better judgment I decided to open the Journel to see what was lurking inside. The first page should have been a red flag to stop reading, shove the whole thing in a drawer somewhere and forget all about it.

Feb. 28 Today is ASH Wednesday. MRS. Hardman was nicer then she was to me the uther days it was a good day Today!

Mar. 5 Today at reading I forgot To go to the restroom. It was very very funny! MRS. Hardman was so mad she got red in the face and I mean red! It was the funnyest day ever. Ha! Ha! Ha! I can't stop laguhin.

Mar. 6 Today I am so aksideid

The first entry made me smile. "Aw... I was such a cute child! Look at my adorable misspelling of 'other' and the sweet way that I chose to capitalize at random."

My smile froze halfway through the second entry. I forgot to go to the restroom? Hilarity ensued? The teacher became angry enough to cause an increase of blood flow to her face?! Okay, in my own defense, I must have thoroughly repressed the memory of that particular day because I DO NOT recall ever wetting my pants at school. Ever. So it might as well have never happened at all. It didn't happen at all. That journal entry was a lie.

I didn't even bother to acknowledge my inventive spelling on that last entry. I kept reading, trying to satisfy my masochistic need to know what other experiences I'd spent years repressing.

Now, I hope you haven't started judging me yet. Hold back for just a minute or two, then trust me, you'll get your chance. Right after you read this:

Apr. 4 Today Emily was makeing faces at me like (innocent, silly face with very shiny tongue hanging out) and (horrifying succubus face poking its own eyes out and also with shiny tongue)!

Apr. 9 Today I will pray for a little boy in Englind. Wow! Oh! Look at him now! Wow! Oh! Wow! Oh! Wow! Oh! Wow! Oh! Look at him now!

Apr. 10 Today I have to go to the restroom! Bye!

Apr. 11 Today I Like you

I don't remember Emily at all, but I'm pretty sure she must have been some sort of demonic predator because no human being should ever be able to make a face like that. Again, this journal is from when I was in FIRST GRADE. Why wasn't I in therapy?

The April 9th entry made me start to suspect that seven-year-old me was either a) legitimately insane or b) lazy and just trying to fill up space in the stupid journal. Those last two entries have me convinced that it's the latter. At least, that's what I'll keep telling myself while I spend the next eighteen years repressing the memory of my mom handing me this thing.

The Amazing Flying Dog

2008-12-25T10:02:00.000-08:00

You can't tell from the picture (it's pretty blurry... sorry about that), but she achieved nearly 4 feet of air on that one. My mom was holding a dirty napkin, by the way. Not a delicious morsel of food or even a dog treat.

I never said the dog was smart.

(When I showed this picture to my mom, her response was "Oh! She look like a shrimp!" Mmm... cocktail sauce.)

Things that go "squawk" in the night

2008-12-25T08:26:00.000-08:00

There's a 6-foot tall cage near my mom's computer (behind and to the right of me as I type) filled with about a dozen or so of these things. Their endless chatter drives me absolutely bananas, and I'm THIS CLOSE to lifting the latch on the cage door and letting Gracie go hog wild.

Cruel, I know. But what a merry Christmas for Gracie that would be...

Gracie's Blogger Debut

2008-12-24T21:45:00.000-08:00

A little over a year ago, a certain void in my life was filled by the addition of a certain cocker spaniel / poodle mix. The Brazos Animal Shelter estimated her age to be around five years. She was skittish, malnourished and a little on the grungy side, but it was love at first sight. She is without a doubt the most loyal and nonjudgmental creature I have ever had the pleasure of knowing. She has a certain way of looking at me that seems to say, "I'm here for you. We're best friends, right?"

I wish I had the ability to tell her, in doggie language, that yes, we are best friends. I appreciate every enthusiastic greeting and endearing nuzzle that she has to offer. And yes, I'm here for her too.

A quick explanation

2008-12-20T23:14:00.000-08:00

...regarding my blog title.

I like to cook. Unfortunately, right now I'm forced to cook within the confines of a preschool teacher's free time and bank account. Which isn't much. So I invented a one-pot wonder meal that allows me to feed myself and guests in a convenient and cost-efficient manner. It also happens to be delicious. The recipe is below. For an eco-friendly version, substitute firm tofu for the chicken.

One-Pot Wonder Meal
Ingredients
1 skinless boneless chicken breast, cut into 1-inch pieces
2 tbsp olive oil
1 zucchini, sliced into thin coins
1 bell pepper, roughly chopped
1 large yellow onion, roughly chopped
1 clove garlic, finely minced
3 tbsp roasted red pepper tapenade (I use HEB brand)
1 cup chicken or vegetable stock
soy sauce, salt and pepper to taste
10-minute boil-in-a-bag rice

Directions

Season chicken with salt and pepper.
Boil some water in a pot for your rice. While water for rice is heating up, you'll want to heat your olive oil in a separate 6-quart pot (size is approximate) on medium-high heat.
Toss chicken pieces in heated oil and sauté until thoroughly cooked and golden-brown on all sides. Remove from pot and quickly replace with onion and bell pepper. Set the chicken aside on a plate loosely wrapped in foil for now.
Sauté onion and bell pepper for about 3 minutes or until softened, then add zucchini and lower heat. Stir it around a bit, then add the tapenade. Stir some more. Add a few dashes of soy sauce (as much or as little as you like). Add garlic and stock, stir once, and then cover the pot with a lid to let everything simmer.
If your rice water is boiling at this point, go ahead and add your bag of rice to it. Set a timer for 10 minutes.
Once your veggies have simmered for a while and the zucchini is nice and tender, remove the lid to let some of that liquid evaporate (the stock you added plus the liquid produced by the cooking veggies). You want about a cup's worth of liquid in your pot when everything's said and done.*
Go ahead and add the chicken you set aside earlier. Stir it around until the chicken is thoroughly reheated
By this time, the timer for your rice should be ready to go off, and when it does, drain the rice and get your bowls ready. First spoon a good helping of rice into each bowl, then follow with a couple big ladles of your one-pot wonder.

* This liquid will be gastronomical gold and will soak into your rice when you serve it all up, creating an indescribable, heartrendingly delicate consistency that makes the whole meal go down so smoothly. Look up comfort food in the dictionary, and a picture of this dish will be there. Smiling. And giving a cute little thumbs-up.

My favorite part about this meal is that you can always experiment with different vegetables instead of the ones listed. Sprinkle in some shredded cheese and cayenne pepper, and you've got yourself a bowl of pure euphoria. When I return to College Station next week, I'll most definitely be making a big pot of this, and I'll post pictures of it then.

Christmas beer comes but once a year...

2008-12-20T19:56:00.000-08:00

I arrived at my parents' house in Plano this morning around eleven. After the obligatory round of hugs and how-are-yous, my dad's first words of welcome were "Do you like Heineken?" I was a little confused but assured him that I liked it fine, thanks. He proceeded to inform me that my mother had purchased two cases and a mini-keg of Heineken for their Christmas party last night (which, by the way, I was specifically asked not to attend. Apparently Gracie would have been one dog too many. They already have three yappy Maltese monstrosities and a slowly rotting sixteen-year-old Yorkshire terrier named Corky). I guess Mom must have found a sale on Heineken. My dad is strictly a Coors Original kind of guy, and their Christmas party attendees consisted of elderly Catholic church friends of theirs who prefer wine and hard liquor.

So the Heineken is mine, and I'm plowing through it like a champ.

Cheers to unwanted beer and to my first blog post!