Certainly one of the more interesting elements of this job is the recipe development. We work on recipes for products themselves, but then we also develop about 200 recipes a year to show the new stuff "in application". So if there's a new jam, we develop a recipe for jam squares or trifle with jam or -- our standard -- puff pastry with jam. For the most part these are the recipes that show up on the backs of bottles and packages.
But a proper recipe doesn't happen like a sneeze. No, as with everything in the corporation, we make the process as long, drawn out and complicated as possible. First, develop the recipe, making sure to use lots of our other control brand products, but only the ones that are available in every one of our stores across the country. Figuring this out is a weeks-long process in itself. Then the recipe's flavour and ease of preparation have to be approved by our boss, then we send it for nutritional analysis. Next we buy all the groceries and send the recipe with groceries out to three people in the company to make at home. We sit down and pore over their feedback, along with the nutritional analysis, make any changes necessary and finally send it up to the powers that be to either print on a package (high exposure, much risk, many calls to customer service if there's a snafu) or tossed into the vast emptiness of the website, never to be seen again (low exposure, no biggie). By the end of it all the recipes are as poked and prodded as a brunch buffet, and just as appetizing to me. Frankly I'd rather never cook them again. (For the record, stay away from buffets of all kinds. Really. Everything you are imagining is true).
And after all that work, I still surprise friends and -- ah!-- colleagues too when I tell them to check out our recipes on the website. Oh, you have a website? with recipes? Pity the poor, tasty little red pepper - Parmesan souffles I made today, the creamy, subtle celery risotto with tiny scallops, the wicked cheddar-sour cream shortbreads, the tapenade puff pastry straws.
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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.
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