My first hard candies!

I’ve always been fascinated by candy. I think it’s beautiful–or at least it used to be when I was a kid. I remember stopping off at a dusty little store on the way home from school and grasping a quarter in my sweaty palm while minutely examining each and every wrapper: Baby Ruth, white with red and blue print; 5th Avenue, brown with yellow print; Mars Toasted Almond Bar, brown and yellow; 3 Musketeers, silver and red; Mountain Bar, light blue with dark blue. Clear lollipops in colors not found in nature: every manner and texture of cooked sugar could be found on those counters. Not only have the wrappers changed, so has the candy–the chocolate tastes like wax, and so many of the brands have disappeared. Beeman’s Black Jack gum–what a strange flavor (light blue with black and white print). Like everything else in America, it’s all become standardized, consolidated and watered down. I feel sorry for kids nowadays, limited to waxy candy and gummies largely flavored with citric acid to make them sour.

So, I’m thinking of becoming a confectioner. It’s a natural extension of my love of cooking–confectionery was an advanced cooking class in culinary school because it requires precise measurements and temperatures–and those happy childhood memories. I’m particularly interested in hard candy for a couple of reasons. One, it really IS beautiful–it literally sparkles, and two, I’m perpetually on a diet and hard candy is the only thing I can eat with impunity.

Today I began my experiments with hard candy, following the basic recipe in an old and wonderful candy cookbook–not as easy to find as you might imagine. I tried the recipe using sugar, corn syrup and orange juice instead of water, with a dab of pineapple flavoring. It turned the exact color of old root beer bottles, and tasted mostly of browned sugar–beautiful, but not as tasty as I’d like. I’ll keep trying–just ordered some new molds (jewels and roses) and flavorings from candy.com.

http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/

Oh, how I love this. I am responsible for five soups that will be served in the restaurant, one each day. And I get to pick! I’ve chosen my mom’s borscht (a big hit–thanks, mom), Italian wedding soup (another hit), but chef chose a butternut squash puree (a disaster, as I cooled the squash in ice water and it absorbed too much liquid; Chef bitched about the seasoning, too. Another experience on the learning ladder.), shrimp bisque (a hit) and a simple leek/potato puree (another hit.) I love it when it works, and I love being totally responsible for a dish from start to finish. Here’s the borscht recipe, for restaurant service (24 servings). Cut in half for home service–it freezes well and gets better every day:

Raw material--try it, you'll love it!

Olga’s Autumn Borscht

Portions: 24, portion size 8 fl. oz.

*Best if made one day in advance

2lb boneless lean pork in 1 inch chunks

16 oz onion, large dice

16 oz green cabbage, shredded

1. Brown the pork, onions, and cabbage together in a heavy bottom pot with just enough oil to keep food from sticking.

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3.5 qts. beef stock or vegetable stock (for cold soup)

30 oz red beets, peeled, cut into 3/8 inch half-moons

2. Add stock slowly to the pot and add beets. Bring to boil and simmer for 10 minutes.

30 oz peeled white potatoes, large dice

3. Add potatoes to simmering soup. Simmer for another 15 minutes.Green tops from 5 beets, chiffonade, 1inch length

4. Add to soup, and simmer for an additional 5 minutes or until beets and potatoes are tender.

Rice or cider vinegar or sour cream

Season to taste with salt and pepper.

If serving as a cold soup, stir in one spoonful of rice vinegar or cider vinegar when serving. If served as a hot soup, add a spoonful of sour cream.

Garnish with fresh dill, chopped (dried dill works, too)

The tears are beginning to fall

Now that we’re about to move into our new stations, the constant pressure is beginning to show. Several people have mentioned that they’re not sure what they’re doing in this class. “I don’t intend to work in a restaurant” is a common refrain. Many of us joined up to learn to cook well, and what we’ve been exposed to is the grundgiest side of the restaurant business: the conflicts among different personalities, the constant greasy clean-up, petty jealousies and continual time pressure—put that together with being relegated to one station at a time, making one thing over and over rather than learning a lot of different techniques—some of my fellow students are headed for the door. I’m not among them. The adrenalin rush of having to put up or shut up within a short period of time (you burned it? Make it again, and quick!), combined with the hurried atmosphere of people rushing about, all bent on making it all come together by 11:30 (when the restaurant opens) is strangely addictive. Plus, I’m actually learning a lot. The textbook is excellent, and just by being in the kitchen, I learn something new every day (no, my knife isn’t dull—it’s easier to cut a bell pepper through the soft inside rather than the tough skin. Duh.) Next: I become one with soup.

The snake is optional

Stock is the foundation of all formal cooking. Most of us get it in cubes or jars, or in boxes from Trader Joes. Fact is, it’s kind of a pain to make, at least the first few times. After that, you’re seriously addicted. You’ll feel virtuous because you’re not throwing away those perfectly good but tough onion peels, celery bottoms, carrot chunks, tomato ends, parsley stems and other vege items. Not the potatoes, though—they and the squash go hand-in-root to the compost pile, along with anything strongly bitter (I’m talking to YOU, endive and kale) or boldly colored (unless you love beet red—then it’s OK). Mirepoix (that mix of ½ onions, ¼ celery and ¼ carrots) in any amount is the basis for all stocks, whether vegetable, white (usually made from chicken bones, though traditionally from veal bones), or brown stock (definitely veal or beef bones). A vegetable stock is the easiest to make, and super versatile. I realize I’m a renegade, and worse, the daughter of depression-era parents, but I save all my onion, carrot, celery bits plus whatever else I’ve cut up in a quart bag in the freezer until it’s full. Learning that potatoes and their bumpy cousins were responsible for my cloudy stock modified my habits, however. I’m not at all careful about proportions, though I often end up with the right amount of onions because they’re in everything I cook. I used to roast it straight from the freezer, but I’ve found I really don’t need to. I dump the washed bits into water to cover plus a little more, bring it to a boil then turn it down to (oh, these cooking phrases!) a “lazy bubble”—aka a slow simmer with the occasional bubble breaking the surface. Cook uncovered for 45 minutes, and strain. This makes a great basis for soups and sauces. If you, like me, are space-challenged, cook the strained, clear stock down (again at a lazy bubble) until it reduces to the amount you need. As Chef says, “You can always add water”. When you make vegetable stock, you have found the true meaning of life-save the good stuff, make the best use of it, have patience, and the results are versatile and satisfying.

And it's almost Christmas again!

Remember that scene in The Polar Express (2005) where the waiters come in with hot chocolate and sing the “hot, hot” song? A lot of people sing it in the kitchen, along with  “sharps”, “knife”, and “behind you”.

The hottest place in the kitchen—and the most likely to do damage—is on “the line”—the sauté cook, griller, and griddler are all in a row, and all burners on the 25-foot line are on full-blast. It’s Death Valley sculpted in steel, coated with liberal amounts of clarified butter. The line cooks wait for an order to come in, and depending on what it is, can have several orders blazing away at once. It’s a lot of hurry-up-and-wait, and if you lose concentration, a lot of opportunities for 3^rd degree burns. Most of us, if we’ve cooked before at all, have already managed to burn off our fingerprints by reaching for the pan/pot/utensil without thinking. Mystery writers could have a field day with this fact.

There’s also a sandwich station, which supplies the coffee shop; a garde manger station (pronounced “gard manJAY”—oh, you sound so French) for salads and cold appetizers; a prep team, who cut all the vegetables and do some of the other foundation preparation such as side dishes; the student meal team who come up with the eats, a student chef who finds out what the different stations need and makes a list each day, and yours truly—packing veges and herbs, “fabricating” meat, fish and poultry (yes, that’s what it’s called), making the occasional stock, and up to my elbows in soapy, greasy water at least three times a day. I brought in a little red devil rubber duck that sits on the sink dividers—patron saint of the pot sink. Next week, I’ll be student chef—I can’t tell whether I’m moving up or down in the world.

We line up for the student meal.

The knives truly come out after a few days. We have a few students who insist on instructing others—true fonts of un-requested advice and correction. A little knowledge is a dangerous thing. You haven’t lived until you’ve been busted by a Kitchen Nazi—I got it (rightfully) for not carrying my knife point down—a dumb move; fortunately I’m ignorant, not stupid. But free advice can be mighty unwelcome: it takes some longer than others to understand that unsolicited advice from someone who knows little more than you do is just plain annoying. The worst part is, sometimes it’s GOOD advice, but you become deaf to it because—well, if these people are in a beginning cooking class, why should you listen to them? Aren’t they there to learn too? Could they secretly be scouts for Iron Chef? How’s my hair?

Most students are hard workers who will pick up any job, no matter how messy—earning the respect and gratitude of others. Others, alas, have earned the sobriquets “Kitchen Barbie” and “debutante” (yes, that CAN be a guy) and their names are included in the phrase “Where’s …?”, always followed by an eye roll and derisive snort. This is the big kitchen Zen lesson, since it’s all about helping each other. There’s no squeaking by in the confines of the big gray room—EVERYBODY notices if you take frequent breaks, disappear, or don’t dive into the gross bits. And there are always gross bits, more than you’d ever suspect.

We’ve begun having student meals prepared by members of our class, which are close to heaven—just a few bucks for some decent-to-great chow and a variety of sinful desserts from the pastry people. Everyone is going to be on that station eventually, so what used to be complaints about “too much salt, not enough thyme” has turned into finding what’s right about the meals—what goes around etc. In this little hive, all the bees have stingers, but we can make some powerful honey, too.

Tools of the trade...

We saw a truly informative video about knives. We all have our “kits”, which we carry around in cases, like ominous flutes. The knives are very, very sharp—basic kits include a 10-inch chef’s knife, 8-inch boning knife, 3-inch paring knife and a peeler among other tools. Several of us took turns sharpening on a stone, which involves precise angles combined with a Pilates-like twist of the upper body. This has to be good for the core. I worry for my fingertips.

The kitchen has stations, like an army has divisions. My first assignment is Receiving/Butchering/ Pot Wash. Receiving is a flurry of activity, putting away boxes of produce and icing down fish and meats. Meats go into the walk-in covered with plastic wrap; fish are in a drain/sieve pan in a hotel pan (square/rectangular stainless steel pans of various sizes), covered with plastic wrap, then with ice. They have to be re-iced daily. The exceptions are shellfish such as mussels, which drown, so must be iced under the drain pan. Pot wash is exactly what it sounds like—wet and greasy. Butchering is endlessly interesting, even for a semi-vegetarian like me—I think of it as surgery.

Facing his fate with courage and determination

I can now break down a chicken (fortunately for me, headless, footless and plucked) into eight parts in a couple minutes. Here’s how:

1. On the chicken’s backside, make a shallow cut with your knife down each side of the backbone.

2. Hold the chicken up by the tail and cut through the ribs on both sides all the way down to the neck following the shallow cuts, taking care not to cut through the breast meat. Keep the backbone for the stockpot.

3. Open the chicken up and take out the firm piece of cartilage that runs inside the breast by making a close cut with the tip of your knife around the V-shaped end and getting your fingers under the upper bony part (you’ll leave the wishbone in). Cut the breast in half by pressing down on the knife where you’ve just removed the cartilage and bone (you’ll split the wishbone in half).

4. Flip each side over and press down with your fingers between the upper thigh and breast—make a clean cut there on both sides.

5. Separate the thigh from the drumstick by feeling for the joint between them, and cut around and through it.

6. On the breast, feel for the wing joint closest to the breast meat, and cut through (the tips are pretty useless, but you can use the larger part of the cut wing for “drummettes”). This configuration—with the bit of wing left on—is called an airline cut.

7. Make a diagonal cut on each breast to separate it into 2 equal pieces: Voila! An 8-piece chicken!

Food Temperature Danger Zone

I’ve been to at least 25 picnics where shiny bluebottle flies squatted on fried chicken left out in the sun for at least 4 hours. Then we’d all take some home, and call in sick the next day. Here’s the skinny on temperatures: the inside of your freezer should be 0 degrees Fahrenheit. The inside of your refrigerator should be less than 40 degrees F—top, bottom and door (all different—I checked). The Danger Zone, where even Jedi knights fear to tread, is between 41 and 135 degrees F. You can keep hot food in a warmer at 140 degrees for two hours, then you have to reheat it up to 165 degrees to kill all the nasties. In fact, no food should be in the Zone for more than a couple hours before icing down to 41 degrees. Wonder why you got turista from that popsicle in Mexico? It’s because heat kills a lot of the bad guys, but cold just slows them down. Of course, there are evil bacteria that nothing can kill, like salmonella, which sounds like a jazz-singing fish, but is undetectable until you get very, very sick. Fortunately, thanks to squeaky clean processing procedures, it’s not the worry it once was.