Just about every chef I know has a soft spot for some kind of junky food. Bunny dreams about tuna noodle casserole made with canned soup, Donnie Dee eats mini ravioli cold out of the tin, Kiki treats herself to those weird Mac Do pancake-sausage-egg sandwiches. These are our secret indiscretions, too embarrassing and horrendous ever to admit in public. Unless we're macking on trash together. So when the remains of a Happy Retirement cake made their way to the work kitchen Thursday afternoon, Kiki and I descended upon it with the kind of guilty glee reserved for playing hooky or watching The Young & the Restless. That store-bought white slab crusted with liquid paper-white frosting and eerily blue rosettes is the kind of naughty trans-fat heaven that makes your spine shudder. I had a little sliver. Then another and another. Then brushed my teeth to try to break the cycle, only to return to the sugary trough half an hour later. At some point Mama Jen (our moral compass) sighed "I do not understand you girls". You should see us when we're testing deep-fried cheese sticks, or anything deep fried for that matter. It's a little disgusting and a lot discouraging, no doubt, to watch chefs with refined palates and high calibre cooking skills stuff our faces with breaded, cheese-stuffed chicken fillets. Oh don't even mention macaroni and cheese.
In my own case, there are 2 possible explanations here. One, I appreciate the processed food because it is the very opposite of what I have chosen to do with my professional life. Kind of an anti-"busman's holiday" excuse. The second possibility has something to do with my tortured relationship with food and its relation to my identity and self-esteem. But it's way too complicated to spend any time on that one.
skip to main |
skip to sidebar
What passes for a meal this week
- a terrible cafeteria salad
- veggie miso burger on greens
- bran flakes and a few medjool dates
- pork chops and sweet potatoes with green beans
- pesto pizza
- spag bol
- half a lamb chop, a sausage and salad
What's the deal?
I’m a chef - I make my living cooking. Years in the restaurant industry were good to me, but I concurrently took my Master of arts and when I was through it dawned on me that I didn’t actually want to be a prof in some charming small town; I wanted to keep cooking. Trouble is, restaurant work isn’t the most intellectually stimulating, and I wanted more. After years of cobbling together food-and-writing-related work, I landed in the wild world of magazines as a food editor.
The wrinkle is that I don’t cook for myself. People I meet at parties go all gooey-eyed when they ask me what I made for supper, imagining no doubt seared scallops on a puree of freshly shelled peas with crisped guanciale and basil oil. The unexpected truth is it was likely a bowl of pasta with olive oil and whatever was in the fridge, be that Parmesan, sundried tomatoes, or a shot of gin. I live alone so there is no one else to impress except myself. And now you.
But this is hardly the the sad tale of a lonely young woman. Many nights, it’s quite the opposite: if there is bread in the house I will drench two slices of it with mayo and add a fried egg and thinly sliced kosher pickles, then stand over the sink and inhale that mofo. It’s so good and makes me so happy that I often make another one right away. What, am I going to create a stunning three-course meal for myself, set the table, light a candle and cluck about how great it is to be single and independent? Bah. Better to dirty as few dishes as possible and get on with it.
The wrinkle is that I don’t cook for myself. People I meet at parties go all gooey-eyed when they ask me what I made for supper, imagining no doubt seared scallops on a puree of freshly shelled peas with crisped guanciale and basil oil. The unexpected truth is it was likely a bowl of pasta with olive oil and whatever was in the fridge, be that Parmesan, sundried tomatoes, or a shot of gin. I live alone so there is no one else to impress except myself. And now you.
But this is hardly the the sad tale of a lonely young woman. Many nights, it’s quite the opposite: if there is bread in the house I will drench two slices of it with mayo and add a fried egg and thinly sliced kosher pickles, then stand over the sink and inhale that mofo. It’s so good and makes me so happy that I often make another one right away. What, am I going to create a stunning three-course meal for myself, set the table, light a candle and cluck about how great it is to be single and independent? Bah. Better to dirty as few dishes as possible and get on with it.
The Girl
During my apprenticeship I was the only woman in a kitchen of randy, raucous men. At first they called my first name to get my attention, but once they started calling me The Girl ("pick up table 45 Girl", "get The Girl to make more crackers") I felt like I was one of the crew. Feminism be damned, there's nothing like being accepted into a kitchen brigade.
No comments:
Post a Comment