A Hungry Poet

Hungry poet
Sit at my table
What do you write?
Is it a meal for the mind...

Or a story for the stomach

Hungry poet
Oh how furious and firm
I watch...
Forearm flexed as
Your script glides across as
Would a hot knife
Through cool butter

Your pen punctures
Pinholes into pie crust
Apple and cinnamon
Ink bleeds vanilla essence
Blank pages of pastry
Showered with sugar

Your poem snags at my
Tastebuds
Tantalizing
Teasing

Maybe...

Dress me
Or undress me
Frilly leaves of
Green and purple
Jewels of tomatoes
Bedazzled is my body

Hungry poet
Slice me away
Piece by piece
Leave your words
All undone

In my kitchen floor

Come find me...and we'll eat well together...

Xo

A Girl

Carte Blanch and so on

Change is normal
It means you're growing
Evolving

Sometimes you need a change
To realise what you're capable of.

But sometimes you need a change
To help you discover how much you
Love staying the same.

This is real. The life I lived.
So here's my soul on a platter
My words in the now:

----------------

It's my birthday
Born a Wednesday's child
Crack of dawn and my eyes open.
Sun pours into my room
Filling my sleep riddled eye
Hot and orange

A cup of hot tea sits
Whips of steam snake through the air
Dad makes a smashing cuppa
Sugary and creamy 
Spoon still inside

Out of bed,  I step my foot down and yelp.
My arch freezes and a shock runs up my calf but I stand anyway. 
Charlie horses are my mode of transport.

The creek in my ankle permanent now
It clicks as I hobble down oak steps.
I hate being late
So I slept in today's trousers
Yes.  I really did.

Shower? Did that only 4 hours ago
Night time showers help me sleep
Crack of dawn showers make me howel

November frost leaves icy kisses
On my Mazda 3. 
I ran out in my trousers and socked feet
Preheating/defrosting is essential.

Back in the warmth of my home
I slice pieces of "Plat bread" from Guyana
And toss them on a skillet to toast.
One burner always fires up faster than the rest
It's a law it seems
In this case the top left seems to take the lead

With zero tact or class 
I grab a stick of butter and rub my toast
A glistening sparkle on my crusty bread

I quickly eat and pull on my hoodie
Grab my backpack, my clogs and cap

Keys...keys...where are my keys??
Awe yes warming up my Mazda!

"Coming home early today?" She hugs me and whispers happy birthday as she kissed my cheek.

Mom asks. 

"I'll let you know..."

I knew the answer
No.

I hopped into my car and sped to work

I yanked the door open
Trotted down the concret steps

Kevin - Exec Chef was in his office
Cursing

"GET IN HERE...NOW!"

I shiver. What now? Did I forget something?
Steaks ordered for next Friday - check
Received the wedding cake for tonight's function - check
Schedule for the boys next week - check
Orders for veg - check
Strained the stock...went through the new coffee samples...paid The Bread Guy...yep all done.
Inventory - done
what's his beef?

I change in the hallway

Pulling off my hoodie sporting a tank top and trousers
Pulled down the smallest jacket
Walked and dressed myself 
Multitasking 

"Chef?"

"Look at this! Can you believe this shit?"
Pointing at his screen, furrowed eye brows. I move over to his desk bottoning up my white coat.

I stare at the BEO (Banquet Event Order in case you were wondering)

Last minute changes. Major last minute changes. Holy hell! My heart fell. Then fury rushed through my veins.

I looked at Kevin.

Kevin was like me, loved classic rock, and a good curry from time to time. Execpt he was older, more beaten up, dabbled in some heavy duty chemicals in the 80's but can cook like no other. Never compromised on his product and did most things from scratch. He was also Guyanese born here in Canada. Old enough to be my dad but young enough to shoot the shit with.

But sex drug & rock n' roll aside, his expression right now was that of sheer violent passion that I knew if I didn't intervene now, the crew would pay a heavy price.

"I'll handle it. Just cool it, Kev! It's gonna get done. I mean if the cli-"

He gets up from his seat in a rage. Towering over me an easy 6 feet vs my very proud 5 foot 2 inches,  I manage to simultatiously kick the office door closed and stick my arms out to push him in the opposing direction. Superwoman pose.

"Print it off. I'll talk to her. Move from this office Chef and you will not live it down!"

So the last minute change...what was it? Numbers increased from 350 to a whopping 408. Oh and throw in a live crepe suzette station. Live crepe suzette!  1978 called and wants their crepe suzette back.

"Are you threatening me? Are you f***ing kidding me right now?" Kevin proclaims.

"I may be small but I'm quick! Do you really want to challenge my challenge? I will f*** you up, no shame!" I replied punching him in the arm. 

My cheeky humour always defuses the old chap. His face started to relax and the grinding of his teeth subsided. Then came the beginnings of a smile.

I grab the BEO and bounce up the stairs.

"Oh- ho! Capone! Whip up 400 crepes for me please?" I holler down the kitchen corridor. 

"Should I tell you f*** off now or wait for a better time?" Another bit of sarcasm from my dearest Capone. A giant teddy bear much taller than chef, goofy boyish charm and dirty blond hair, he flunked the Red Seal two times already but I didn't care. He worked hard and he was a nice piece of eye candy.

"Heading up to sales, Carte Blanch?" A raspy voice from behind me speaks. Michael, our butcher come grill cook come resident gossip keeper, holds my shoulders as he shifts me aside to make way.  He must have heard the drama in the chef's office as he already started trimming up another two cases of prime rib. 

"Oh I'm going up there alright. Oooh...yes!"

"Well be nice, eh? Pay cheques come in tomorrow." He had a point but who cares when now I gotta keep the crew in for another 4 hours on a Saturday night.  

Money was never an issue, time however always was. Time poor - money rich. 

I walk through the banquet space and leap up the stairs. BEO in hand and the face of an angel. That is, until I unleashing the devil out my mouth.

"Chef! What's for lunch today?" The ladies upstairs, the front of house team and sometimes even the kitchen crew if we aren't busting each other's chops, would address me as chef. I liked it.

"Really? It's friggin' 11:00am! Damn!" I chuckled at Dee's audacity when it was her BEO I was about to slaughter. It's a time to kill.

She laughed too but offered no eye contact. She was scared. She ought to be if it was Kevin.

"With all due respect, what the heck is going on here?" Using the f-word here might be too much so heck will do. "Are you really kidding me with this? You think we can just pull prime ribs and crepes out of our a---, ere out of thin air?!" Good save.

"Well, they are paying for it. I'm sure you'll figure it out." That's what I'm getting. This. No sorry. No explanation. I should make her suit up, clip that pretty manicure and serve this crepe suzette at midnight.

Fucking crepe suzette. Happy Birthday to me! Here's your motherfucking pancake you pretentious witch!

My internal self was throwing a full on 'it's my party and I'll cry if I want to' tantrum.

"Again, with all due respect. You are totally disrespecting our crew's time and our food cost. Do this again to me and the team it's proof you really don't give a flying fuck about what this kitchen does and the quality we deliver! You are friggin clueless! And lunch? I suggest you dial '967-1111' instead of my extension today..."

No need to wait for her reaction. No time. Make a point and leave.

FYI: that's the number for pizza delivery.

Note, no where did I say 'no'. We are not in the business of saying the word. It's like it doesn't exist. To boot, we are in the business of weddings. Ever tried to tell a bride no on her wedding day? Haha, my advice? Don't. However the point I was trying to make here on behalf of the kitchen, and all kitchens everywhere is that we do take pride in what we do.  This is our livelihood.  We don't do this to one day become famous, be on the Food Network and have a set of frying pans named after us. No, we are artists and this is how we get paid, and just like you we have families, husbands, wives, boyfriends, girlfriends. A sacrifice not just made by us, but by those we love as well.

I speed down the steps. I rarely walked when I was cheffing. I did a speedy stride, jogged , leaped, climbed, jumped, lifted, pulled and often dragged but never just walked. It felt inefficient to JUST walk. Also, when you're  the smallest on the crew, walking often slowed me down even more.

Back in the kitchen, Danny boy, our part time guy was cutting veg. Michael was slicing away fat from the beef and Capone was whisking crepe batter.  Kevin was also up in the kitchen, talking to himself about the service. He did that a lot. But he was also making another round of marinara for the pasta course tonight. Good thing I cooked off those tomatoes yesterday.

It was now 12:30pm. Still my birthday.

Frank, The Bread Guy entered. *sigh*

Happy Birthday, me!

I looked over to Capone, his face was disgruntled and a bit red.  I noticed he was a bit aggressive with the 4 frying pans he was working simultaneously.

"Hey, how's it going?" Asked Frank. Those eyes, and the arms! Oh goodness those arms. I got hot around the collar and felt it creep up to my cheeks. By now, the whole world seemed to know about my undying obsession with Frank.  I literally turned into a baby giraffe learning how to walk for the first time, every moment he was around.  I would trip, drop things, even stutter. Sous chef turn softy all over the guy with the bread.
 
Rosy from Banquets happened to pass by in her loud Latina manner she hollered at me, "CH-ef! You ok?"

Lord, help me. Rosy was my closest friend, and we ran a business together on our downtime.  She knew all about Frank's residence in my brain.  She wanted to watch me squirm a bit.  I smiled. Now, lightheaded I had to answer Frank's question.

"It's going! Can't complain given it's my birthday," so subtle, I know.

"What? Happy Birthday! You should have told me earlier! I would have brought you a gift!" he proclaims.

The only gift I want from you would require a whole lot of privacy, a bottle of Champagne and a man I call Barry White.  Focus!

"No worries Frank. You can just buy me a coffee,"  and flowers, and chocolates...candle lit dinner...

"You got it! Have a great birthday!" and out the door he went.

I had forgotten about Capone. I glanced over again, he was officially a different colour. A shade of red only affiliated with one emotion. It did dawn on me before but never had I noticed it so overtly, nor had I considered to indulge it.  He too had a hard time hiding what was on his mind.  I walked over and stood close to him, and I felt the jagged energy pulse off his towering body. He shuffled his feet, to give me room.

"Yep?" he asked.

"Your crepes look good. How many have you done so far?"

He sighed, then smiled a sheepish smile looking down at my face. Wait, what? Why is my face getting hot? Again? I'm standing too close to the grills. Ya, that's it. Huh?

"82."

"I'll help. Give me half the batter and I'll fire up the other burners.

4 more burners totaling 8. 8 frying pans. 8 crepes made at once.  2 chefs. Elbow to elbow.

With a ladle, I quickly poured batter. Now ambidextrous from years of trying to be quicker, better and more efficient, I held a frying pan in each hand and flicked and rolled my wrists. With a smooth motion I placed them back on the fire. Capone, a bit quicker but a little sloppier did the same.  A wafting draft brushed my nose, a hint of vanilla and butter.  His batter was smooth, no lumps. It poured like heavy cream. He did a good job.  Now does it taste good? I took a cooled one, and ripped it. I placed it in my mouth and chewed. The texture was soft but not fall apart soft.  The hint of sweetness and vanilla came through but very subtly.  With that suzette sauce, this would go well. 

I couldn't deny it.  He was a good cook.  In a lot of ways better than me and that didn't bother me. I could learn from him and he was surely learning from me, when he wasn't going beet-red when I was around.

Michael leaves the kitchen and goes into the back room where Big Eddie and the boys usually have their lunch.  I knew where he was going.  I hear the distinct hiss and pop of an espresso machine. 

Michael was a stocky middle aged Armenian guy who had a lovely singing voice and a good judge of character. He could read people well, especially if it meant getting information out of them.

"Habiiii-bii!" He sang to me while putting his arm around my shoulder kissing my cheek. He was apparently raised in Lebanon and could also speak Arabic. "Happy Birthday! Capone, did you give your girlfriend here her birthday kiss?"

Oh for fuck sakes! I thought to myself. Although I bet Capone would be a delicious kisser.

"Die...Mike just die." Capone replied turning red again. 

Ok so the cats out of the bag for my Italian teddy bear here. Capone did the 'where are my smokes' face and walked out.

I continued with the crepes. Then my mind began to wonder as crepes as fast as they cook, still feel slow when you have 400 to make.

My birthday. And I'm here. I had ended things with Captain in August and still no regrets but this is one birthday I am wondering what could have been. Scratch that! I looked down at the crepes. Nicely blushed not browned too much and uniformed.

"We drink tonight to celebrate your birthday!" Danny says in passing. Buddy was always looking for a free drink. Or just a drink in general. He has at least 12 coffees a day and drank like a fish soon as we clocked out. Tonight lord only knows when that will be.

Capone returned, now much calmer and less red. 

I left him to complete the crepes and walked over to the white board to check off whats been done. I was always the last to leave at night because I was in charge of making the prep list for the next day. That and if I let Kevin do it, it looks like a Serial Killer broke in and left his grocery list behind with his poor handwriting. 

I love lists. Prep lists were a favourite of mine because I broke them down even to the minute. I know how long it took to clean and trim a full salmon, to chiffonade 8 bunches of basil, to sear off chicken breasts for 60 people and so on. I'm dedicated to the clock and timing is everything. Tonight we have 408 hungry Italians to feed and I don't need any fuck ups or delays.

My stomach rumbled. I looked at the clock at it's 3:40pm. 90% of the prep is done and all that's left is the last few dessert plates and suzette sauce. 

Blasted suzette sauce!

I ran down to the other end of the kitchen and popped the walk-in cooler open. Capone was in there already grabbing fresh strawberries from the top shelf. I decided in that awkward moment to take the blueberries from the middle shelf, enough for plating and coulis. So everything we had.

Capone moved closer and danced around me collecting more flats of berries. That's when I felt a warm sensation slip around my waist. I looked down and his strapping arm and gentle hand swiftly pulled me in one direction and he searched the shelves with eyes in another.

Knowing exactly when to let go he turned with strawberry crates propped on one shoulder and pushing the door open with the next.

It was very quick. Too quick to say it was an advance because I know I've done the same. I've gently held someone's arm to direct them. Pushed someone by the waist to get them out of the way from an oven door. Kitchens are small quarters at times and eventually you get touched, pulled, pushed, shoved and so on. As a woman I knew where to draw the line with the cheeky ones. I've elbowed a few naughty boys in the rib cage a time or two. Threatened to cut body parts off...etc.

Michael had started dressing plates along with Danny. Capone handed off the berries and had started in that God-forsaken suzette sauce.

I turned on a burner and filled a pot with water. I dig around my station to find a couple boxes of penne pasta. This will have to do. 

I thinly sliced onions and peppers. We had some spicy Italian sausage from a late station from earlier that week. I pulled them out of the fridge and slit them so I could squeeze the meat out of the casing.

I need to feed the guys. They'll be working late. It's 4:30pm and this is lunch time. 

Lunch was served. I ate over the sink. Capone and Danny sat on milk crates and Kevin and Michael ate by the steam kettles to nurse that marinara sauce. 15 minutes chew fast. Get back to it.

Back to my list:

Crepes and Suzette - fine

Extra prime rib, veg and back up potatoes - turned and roasted. Finished.

The slushy machine is running pinacoladas and strawberry daquiries...cool

Marinara done pasta blanched. Great. Kettle boiling for the refresh.

Salads plated.  Balsamic reduction - check!

Dessert plates.  Done.

Bread arrived. Cocktail hour behind at 6:00 pm...30 minutes to get my ducks in a row.

I was in charge of cocktail hour and canapes. Capone would help me. I dressed the platters and manned the fryer.  He grilled. The cold canapes the servers could help themselves to. 

My cell phone rings. I glance at the caller ID and it's mom. I don't answer but she'll understand why. 

A service kicks off at 6pm sharp. Rare that it's on time but I won't complain. The quicker it moves the quicker I can enjoy some birthday down time.

Krissy, a server bear hugs me during first course. Her bubble gum scented body spray cloaks me and it begins to spark hunger in my belly. 

"Happy Birthday!" She squealed with a giggle synonymous for a teenager.

I thank her and peel away from her grip. Soon, a symphony of happy birthdays and best wishes come my way. Flattered, I hugged, elbow bumped and high fived whomever I could.  Kick in chef mode:

"Folks! Seriously! Let's get this show on the road because I need to squeeze in at least a fairly decent buzz before my birth day ends!" I announce. A couple claps and a cheer from Kenny, the bartender. Kenny was also a tree of a man but quiet. Well, for the most part.  If there's a swarm of ladies at the bar it's a different story. 

"We got 3 gluten allergies, so watch who's serving the pasta course and know your tables.  I have gluten free pasta available but let's not advertise! Prime rib, main course. The sauce is thickened with roux so please don't serve it on the meat unless told by the guest.  Dessert is Tartufo, simple enough. Watch the martini glasses please, I can't keep buying them so please only carry what you can handle. It's 408 people, that's not including the kiddos so please please give me an update if you have any kids meals you need served. Capone and Danny are rolling out the late night crepe station tonight. I will be BOH as runner. Michael will do the poutine station! Questions?"

"Sauce on the pasta?" a voice asked.

"It's actually Arabiatta. Bit spicy, but nothing you'd regret in the morning. Anything else?"

Silence.

"Dressing is balsamic reduction. The sauce for the beef is actually jus lie should any of the guests ask. There is alcohol in the sauce as well, same with the suzette sauce for the crepe station. If there's anything else, I'll be in the chef's office."

I leave Michael and Danny to begin dressing the salads.  I clip-clop down the stairs and find Kevin once again huddled up behind the computer. 

"Kevo! Prep list for tomorrow please?" I ask.

He hands me his note pad without glancing away from the computer.  I step into the dry storage room, begin counting out boxes of pasta for tomorrow. That's when I hear a sound that every chef dreads.

A loud tumbling of plates, a crashing, heartbreaking, stomach dropping, utterly painful sound! Broken plates.  I sigh and step out of the dry store room and find Kevin ready to meet me at the base of the concrete stairs. His eye roll, "After you, princess!" I leap up the stairs, he follows promptly. 

"What the f*** is this?" Curse words flow out of me smooth and calm like pouring maple syrup on pancakes.  I'm much better than most chefs. Some can't go a full sentence without using the f-word, s-word, or even worse the c-word. Kevin is one of those guys but he never used the c-word.  I asked my sources and they confirmed this as I thought maybe he just didn't use it around me. "Jesus, f***ing Mary, Joseph! What's this, like 60 plates!? Come on, you're f***ing kidding me!" I even went Biblical. I think?

Capone was already at the scene of the crime sweeping.  A collision of the servers trying to use the 'out' door as the 'in' door and it became a domino effect.  Plates, salad, balsamic, all guts and glory, all over my floor.  I nearly lost my cool.  Why? Because I wasn't sure we had enough salad greens to replace this cock-up of the century. The broken plates cost money to replace.  Service is now delayed. For fuck sakes! Danny was already replacing plates and garnishing again.  I ran to the walk-in of close encounters, pulled cases of mesculin mix from the shelves, Kevin was on his way out carrying a few as well. This time it was Kevin giving me the chill out speech.

"Fuck, your face! Hey, shit happens, let's just push it out!" His pep talk was short and sweet.  But I was red.  Not, "oh my dearest Frank"  red, this was "Someone will die tonight" red.  Kevin could read me like a book.  He knew I was going to lose it. I had already worked 82 hours on the punch card.  I was still here at 2am yesterday (today?) and was back here bright and early at 9am. I was fried but still going strong. So he did what any good exec chef would do...

"Smoke break! Now!" Kevin barked at me. I don't smoke. But I know what that means. It means, get the hell out of the kitchen before you turn this into a CSI episode. I begin to hum "Teenaged Waste Land" in my head.

I kick a milk crate as I storm out of the kitchen. I bump into Lyn, my enemy. Older woman, Blockbuster cashier turn 'Banquets Expert' (my brown ass!)  very self-centered and queen of stirring pots.  Her brother was part owner of the business and therefore she had a cockiness coupled with an undeserving title of Banquet Manager.  Rosey has been in this industry for 7 years and still didn't get a shot at the promotion since Lyn joined.  I hated that she looked for every excuse to blame the crew for things going wrong,  And of all people, she walked in, bad highlight and everything! I refused to say hello, why should I? I know I'll just say something highly inappropriate so best keep my mouth shut. It is my birthday after all.

 

I found the curb and I sat.  The cold air woke me up.  I could see the flurries of snow twisting through the air.  I look down at my watch and it said 7:48pm.  Where did the day go? It's dark out and my Mazda was kissed again by frost.  Kevin stepped out, lit a cigarette. "It's cool. They've got it down. Pasta is up next, I just need you to breath man. Shit girl, you were about to go US postal on those kids!"

I got up without saying anything.  I looked at him and smiled. I was fine.  He understood me and my feelings. I work hard.  Really hard.  I want it perfect, even when it can't be.

Rosy, came out as well. "CH-ef? Want a margarita?" She handed me a Styrofoam cup.  The neon green slush looked uncomfortably fake.  Almost radio active. I sip the slush and I laugh.  Oh Rosy, I can count on you!

FYI: there was more than just neon green slush in the cup

I don't believe in drinking on the job. If anything its a danger, and highly unprofessional.  Fellow chefs out there can agree it's the beginning of the end for those who start.  But I took the drink anyway that day and I didn't feel guilty about it. 

I head back in. Now chilled in more ways than one, the pasta course had already kicked off. 

"Carte! You good?" Michael asked.  I went by many nicknames in that kitchen. Carte Blanch, Princess (my least fave but only Kevin used it), Queen Bee, just to name a few.  Carte Blanch was my favourite. 

I nod my head. Teenaged Waste Land was still in my head. 

Capone moved around me and with affection he threw his arm around my shoulder.  But he said nothing. And as swiftly as he was in the walk-in cooler earlier, he pulled my apron strings and my side towels and all tumbled to the floor. Capone let out a jolly laugh and I blush profusely.

"Pay back for the crepes, Carte!" why am I blushing???

The night moved along, and the main course is served.  I realized it had been over a 12 hour shift and I only sat once and that too when it was ordered to.  It was now 11:10pm.  I finally remember my phone was ringing earlier.  I looked at about 17 missed calls and about 20 text messages saying happy birthday. I replied to all of them.  I was happy that I was remembered by those 20 people and it made me feel good after such a wicked service. Wicked good.

I watched on as the servers arranged martini glasses with Tartufo. They garnished it themselves with chocolate cigars and powdered sugar.  Glad to see my delegation to the FOH was paying off.  Danny and Kevin were smack talking by the meat slicer, Capone and Michael were propped up by the coffee machine.  Fuck, the prep list!

I ran downstairs, I began to do counts of everything in the walk-ins, dry storage  and then the freezer.  Everything was there, just as I hoped.  I did do a good job on staying on top of orders from suppliers. 

"CARTE!" Michael yells! I was in the dry storage, climbed up on a top shelf trying to rearrange my neatly packed lentils section.

"Michael? Why the hell are you screaming?" I stick my head out of the room. 

Then I hear Kevin's voice raspy and tired start to holler.  Oh good grief.

"GET IN THIS OFFICE NOW!!!"

Now I just want to cry.

Really.  Just cry and cry.

Not out of sadness. Not even out of frustration or pain.

I want to cry because it takes the least amount of energy and it's quick and easy to hide.

FYI: Note though, I don't cry at work. I may WANT to cry, but I don't.  Actually, I never cry at work.  Crying is weakness.  I don't have time for that.  I'm sous.  Sous's don't cry.  Actually, no chef should cry. Just bad form.  This is what I signed up for, I chose this life! It's my birthday and I had no second thoughts about where I'd be today.  Not because I wouldn't want to be at home being pampered like a baby by my parents, or eating birthday cake or taking shots at the club! Of course I'd love to be doing that, but I'm in the business of making people happy with food. And that makes me happy. Yes, my social life is shot to shit.  Yes I'm money rich but time poor.  But I love to cook! I really do!! 

I begin to unbutton my jacket. My tank top is soaked with sweat, my hair matted to my skull from the pill-box cap I wear. For the first time tonight, I just walk to Kevin's office.

"Inventory is done, Kevin.  Just we need to clean out the freezer next week if we're getting that ice sculpture in,"

There sat Michael on the floor, shoes kicked off, baseball cap in hand.

Capone was sitting in Kevin's chair surfing the internet.

Danny was standing leaned up against the wall, toothy grin and a side towel around his neck.

Kevin stood in front of me and was sleepy eyed and smiling.

In his hand was a 6 pack of Moosehead Lager. My favourite beer.  He pulled one out and handed it to me. "Birthday ladies first!"

I propped the cap edge on the side of the desk and swiftly slammed my palm down. The bottle popped open.  The boys had their own ways of opening bottles, for me this was mine. 

"Happy Birthday, Carte Blanch! Good service and you didn't lose your cool.  Must be that maturity thing I keep hearing about!" Kevin says.

"Thanks!" I say, raising my bottle.

The clinking of bottles continued. I look at my watch and it says 12:17am. No longer my birthday. Happy nonetheless. Wouldn't have changed it for the world.

 xo,

The Girl who Likes to Cook

Home

Home is where the heart is
Home is also where the stomach is...

It's that place where you were taught to eat your vegetables
Don't eat cookies in bed or you'll have nightmares
That you shouldn't drink milk from the carton
Or that grilled cheese sandwiches pair lovely with tomato soup

Home is the place where you can always find something in fridge
Where leftover lasagna makes for a hearty breakfast
That it's okay to eat the crumbs off your shirt
Or lick your fingers

Where it's safe to double dip - sometimes
You can eat peanut butter from a jar
Shamelessly help yourself to seconds, thirds and fourths...
Home is where midnight snacks are made

Home is where you learned family recipes
Experimented with tradition or
Make a new one

Where you feel that no matter what you eat
It would always be good for you
Make you smile
Keep you strong
Keep you healthy

Home is where recipes are shared
Where chicken soup cures your cold
And orange juice and toothpaste often collide

Where you fight over the last lamb chop
Christmas turkeys turn into sandwiches
Overripe bananas turn into bread
And tomatoes turn into sauce

Home is where thumbprints press into cookie dough
Where gingerbread get smiley faces
And hot chocolate thaws frost bitten cheeks

Home is where the heart is
Where your mind body and spirit
Are fed

Xo,

A Girl

A Love and A Menu...Let me tell you a story, Chef

From one chef to another...a release of culinary expression. A story from a far away place - a land unknown...about two chefs...

Dear Chef...let me tell you a story.

Delicious are his words. Sumptuous are his eyes when he stare down at her round face.  The menu is pure and straight forward.  Here comes the story...A menu...A tale of him and her...

The foundation was elegant, free of complexity. Innocent as good ingredients can get! Shall we start with the appetizers? Appetizers are supposed to be appetizing right?  A friendship and an awkward handshake was all that it took and from there your menu grew. And appetites were plenty.

With every good menu, a drink must be paired. A relaxation only the best spirits can give!

A bartender smiled a familiar smile but neither of them knew him as they both propped themselves at a cocktail table. How can you screw things up if you start with a drink? Then came the hours of laughter, the fine balance of bitter and sweet.  So bitter sweet. And a balance continued. He paired nicely with a pint of Budweiser, and she no long felt the sharp bite of her spiced rum and cola. The bartender mixes up the drink order and they both switch glasses gently as to not offend the server. His jokes make her laugh with her soul, not just with her plump lips and toothy grin.

Laughter is the best appetizer. Laughter made them both hungry.

Like a warm bowl of asparagus soup on an early spring afternoon, he melted her heart, making a love grow inside her she was in no way prepared for. She didn't realize the same was happening to him, Chef. Deeper was the conversation of the menus before, the ones that shaped them both to the be the chefs they are today. Family recipes full of lessons and experience swapped and soon their bellies were full.

Glutton they both had become.  Not getting enough out of each other.  A menu they repeated again and again. Baring more each time. All he could think about was her menu. She became engulfed in the same thoughts. Like eating each other up without a single touch. Without a caress. Eyes and stomach bonded the two in such a way that is beyond the physical.  This is the discovery of an epicurean soul mate. A karmic blend! Emulsified so well that where he begins and she ends no long exists.

This time it was a glass of not-so-lovely sangria; he asked her not to drink it and order something else.  Dish after dish came to the table and they both sat speaking of passions, purpose of life and deep down they both hoped that the real topic would be how to build this menu together without anything standing in their way. 

But nothing really stood in his way, Chef, she never let it. All she wanted was to keep him protected. From what? From the heat and flames of her hell's kitchen! She didn't want to see him as an innocent by standard of a failed menu. A menu that never sold. A menu that had no balance or proper composition. 5 star appearances with 1 star capabilities for success.

She never could really say how much she wanted to build the perfect menu with him.

The breakfast omelettes
The bottle of 'cheerup' on his life paincakes - hoping to make even life's sad moments sweet...
The cocktail parties and vanilla-chocolate swirls
Open faced sandwiches and creme brulee

And maybe little shop where they both would create a menu of magic to share with the world...

She wanted and maybe...still wants what the chef wants. Not because he wanted it, chef, but because for the first time in her life, she found someone who's menu paired so perfectly with hers. Naturally so...she's a chef at heart.

From the background music and the crisp white table cloths
The Italian crystal stemware, and bottles of Riesling chilling in the wine fridge

What a story.  Parting and reuniting and the menu still blends even better than the first time.  

But she knew...he couldn't wait. Eager to cook on...a chance he took as she politely stepped out of his kitchen. 

She is bold. Not afraid. So at peace with her craft that not matter how many menus come along his way, she knew her's would be the best he'd ever had.

So she has her menu. Set. Only to evolve for the better. With the top ingredients in her heart and in her pantry. When he is ready, chef, to blend a menu of such a caliber beyond his wildest dreams and desires. She will be there. Chef's coat on, hot red lips and the soulful laugh that only he, a chef can make her do...

The Menu continue...

xo,


The Girl Who Likes to Cook

The Bread Guy

Kitchen opens at 10am every morning and it's event day.

As a banquet chef it's my time to shine!

If you're familiar with banquets at all, you know that it's all about expert timing. Yes, all professional cooking is about expert timing, but with banquets it's even more so.  Why? Well think about it, its not one plate going out to one person, its 500 plates going out to 500 people all eating the same thing (unless they have some kind of special request), and each guest gets 4 courses.  That's 2000 plates done...dusted...and must be flawless.  And I mean FLAWLESS.

But this never bothered me.  I have a knack for plating.  I can sweep the same amount of raspberry coulis on each plate over and over, making each look like the last. Comes with practice and a steady hand.  It becomes mechanical, a thoughtless movement that your body just...well, does!

No, the chaos coupled with repetition never bothered me.  Didn't shake me at all.  I could set up an antipasti buffet for 750 hungry Italians in one room and kick off a traditional 13 course Chinese wedding in another room which inevitably would run late because the Dragon dancers just couldn't show up on time. My timing?? Excellent.  Again, with practice.

None of this left me shaking in my steal toed shoes. Nothing made me doubt my ability to please people with my cream of wild mushroom soup, or my perfectly marinated Frutti de Mari, which I say without shame.  It's good.  Like really good.  I could go for some now...but I'm trying to stay focused here.

But what made me shiver like a cold shower on a winter's day? What made me lose my cool in the pounding heat of a banquet kitchen about to kick off two separate pasta services at once? Made my hands clam up and my back drip with sweat?

It's not a what...

It's a who...

And his name was Frank.

Frank....Frank The Bread Guy.

OOooooooh how Frank made me stumble and fumble like a 13 year old school girl.  Giddy like there was more than just cream in my coffee. I held my breath every time I saw him and sometimes, I'd forget to breath again for more than a few seconds. 

Frank.  I sigh just thinking about him.

Just like his name would indicate, he delivered the bread to our convention centre.  I remember the first day I saw Frank.  It was like a warm breeze of Tuscan air drifted right by me. Olive oil skin, chiseled jaw line and that sexy man stubble on his chin.  Dusty brown hair and brown eyes that I could get lost in for days on end. He's a baker and soon I found out he was the OWNER of that bakery. Drop dead gorgeous AND a business man? Yes, please!

Yes, Frank was fit too.  Had to be since he was the baker, the delivery guy, sales man and my secret lover in my imagination. Frank had drain pipe arms and he wore the torn boot-cut jeans and Polo shirt.  I could see the outline of his chest and his narrow waist through his perfectly fitting clothes. He usually wore a cap but when he came in on the odd day without one, I day dreamed of sliding my fingers through his hair...

In my mind, I dreamed of having curly haired, long eye-lashed kids with perfect mocha shaded skin. 

Snap out of it! Service is more important.

But I'd secretly wait.  Wait to see that back door fly open and this 6 foot, Italian GOD just stroll in carrying 4 boxes at a time of freshly baked breads for service.

Girls can be cheeky, but chef girls can be VERY cheeky.  Cheeky? I mean a little dirty talk behind the counter with the other girls from banquets never hurt.  I'll spare you the details but let's say I wouldn't mind if he buttered my toast one fine morning.

Oh but that day...the day it was just me and The Bread Guy!

He sneaked up behind me and said, "Hey, how's it going?" and I jumped.  I was arranging a cheese board, how aromatic? I began to blush profusely.  My throat began to feel parched and soon I was light headed.  He towered over me and peaked over my shoulder which for someone at his height, was not having any trouble doing.

I dropped my knife and swiftly turned around. My pony tail bobbed and lashed against his chest ( I wished it was my face crashing into his chest, but that's just all imagination) and I glanced up at his muscular chin and cheeks. A smile unzipped half way as to smirk at me.

"Hey," I managed to choke out.

"You know, I love Asiago, it's my favourite! Better than Parm, no?" he said as I fumbled with slices of Provolone, thin and curled into a tube, gently stacked. Like I said, I am great at plate design or in this case, antipasto bar design.

Is he talking to me? I looked around, no a soul to verify so  I guess he was.  Frank my Bread Guy, is talking to me.

"Really? I actually love Asiago myself.  I like how it looks crumbled," I like how it looks crumbled!?!? Can you be a bigger nerd? No...no you can't. That's it, I quit! The inner me just drops her apron, slams her side towel on the floor and storms out of my consciousness.

He smiles, this time 100% and I gasp a little.  Oh, take me now! On this counter! Wait...wait...composure. Be cool!

"So do you like being a chef?" Frank asks.  Wow, okay. So this is happening.

"Yes, I do.  I wouldn't change it for the world." Good answer. Don't screw this!

"Cool. Go to George Brown?" Stay switched on girl. He's asking you need to answer.  Stop looking at those eyes! Okay, look at this chest. No, how can I look at this chest and not look like a perv? Well, look somewhere! Where?? The HAT! Okay...it's like eye contact but not really. It's in the general area!  Sweet...done. Now answer the question.

"Yes, but I did that after my degree," Oh my Ggg'...really? Had to mention you are a degree holder? Stick something in your mouth so you can just shut up and not further embarrass yourself.

I reached into one of the boxes he just brought in and pulled out a small white, Calabrese dinner roll. I then grabbed a side plate and poured olive oil from a large tin onto the centre of the plate. I reached without looking (because my Mise en Place is perfect) for the balsamic and did the same,

I felt him watch me as I moved. 

"Degree, eh? And you're a chef? What's it in?" My inner me returned, slowly peaking herself around the corner of my wall of logic and reason.  Confidence grew.

"Psychology," I answered without looking.  I torn the roll in half, then half again and swirled it in the electric oil and vinegar.  I ate, shamelessly in front of him.  His bread, my olive oil, my kitchen, and his smile.

"Good bread by the way, it sometimes gets me through the day!" Chewing.  I had not looked up at him in a while.  Cross between anxiety and admiration of this man crippled me. 

"Whoa, psychology! So you can read minds?" He didn't hear my compliment.  Fine.  The inner me begins to step out further into the light, she smiles and nudges me to keep speaking. We both lost track of the time.  It could have been minutes or maybe even a good half hour but who cares at this point, I'm already deciding the seating arrangements for our wedding in my mind.  I think round tables of 8? The colour theme maybe rosy pink and grey? Or maybe something bolder like purple and turquoise? If he could only read MY mind right now...

"Ha, no! I can't exactly read minds!" I answer, this time looking up.  I can see how dark his brown eyes were.  I get a hint of cologne and fresh outside air on him that only a crisp fall day can give you. 

"I'm sure you can, oh and by the way, my name is Frank!" he said, as he held out his hand.  

I took his hand and said it was a pleasure, in more ways than one of course. I am The Girl Who Likes to Cook. Just five feet and two inches tall (or short), with a man's uniform two sizes too big even for the smallest of men. A shiny face and cat-line eyeliner which I never leave without.  The inner me fainted with a thud, possibly bruises as well given how hard she collapsed.  Her mouth open and limbs flailed around her like a rag doll.  

He turned on his heals and strutted away. Through the back door and out into the autumn sun.  

The inner me woke up.  Fixed her hair and scrambled to the edge of my mind. A sense of wonder on her face, We'll see him again, right? 

"Tomorrow," I answered her out loud.


xo,

The Girl 

Untitled

This one is untitled. Or at least it will start off as untitled until maybe when I reach the end I may find a proper name for this entry.

Yes, I think after almost a year of blogging my heart out (and this is the longest I've ever had a blog) I feel that it's time for a transition.

Now don't get me wrong, creative writing and food will still appear. This is the main objective.  I can't help but want to write what I feel through my taste-buds and up onto your screens.

It's hard to know by now, how many people read my blog, and that too, consistently read it as fans or just drop in from time to time.  What I really hope to find out is what you really think of this blog. I know I've dropped off from time to time, but that's only because I want to give a quality post and not just jibber jabber.

Shall I become more exposed? Share myself more? Are you looking for a constructive blog from a practicing chef? Recipes even? Do you want to see what I look like or what my voice sounds like? Or is this all just lost in the onion that is the cyber world. Hidden beneath the layers of pungent and aggressive blogging sites so strong that really I don't know if I could compete!

I want you to tell me.  Really.  What do you want?

I pour my heart out here.  And my soul.  And maybe...just maybe it's time to share the skill.

Shall I cook for you?

Display my guts and glory on the dinner plate, gingerly garnished for your dining pleasures?

So here it goes:
girlwholikes2cook@gmail.com

Do it.

Say it.

Blow my mind!

HAHA! Okay...yes in time, I'm sure I'll hear from you.  I hope so!

I want to give you more.  And I will. 

xo,

A Girl...

Between

The television on and the hum of the tube silent yet hypnotic. A whisper from the iPod, "Our day will come," by Amy Winehouse lingers on my lips. 

A night is about to begin.

A burning sensation. I want to do something bad. Against the rules. Selfish and self indulgent.

It's time to be wicked. 

We all have those moments. Don't lie. You do. When you just want to cave into your deepest craziest desires when no one is around. When no one can interrupt you. When no one can tell you no, that's too much, stop, slow down, no - I mean it!

A moment of being limitless.

Lawless.

A satin and chiffon aqua blue night gown that goes to the floor is my secret companion. She makes me feel pretty even if she doesn't say it. Pristine sheets, crisp and clean. Tightly tucked with mitered corners get tugged and lashed to the side. A bed, unmade.

How rare is it to be alone? Like really alone? Not expecting any calls, and if you do, your phone is silenced or at least plugged in a charger in another room. Curtains are closed and the lights are off in every room but the one you're in. Unless you're me. The kitchen is always expecting a visit from A Girl who Likes to Cook.

I gave myself a pedicure and the soles of my feet tap lightly as I walk across the cold tiles. I flick the switch and pull out a serving tray my mom gave me. It's wooden made of the bark of some exotic tree in the Amazon. I rest a plate in the middle, it has a chip on the edge where my finger naturally glides over. An endearing flaw.

I had made a batch of cookies earlier that day for this main purpose. To take it to another level of dessert stardom. I cracked open the plastic container and it pops and crackles as it releases it's warm perfume of cinnamon and raisins. A healthy attempt at a sweet biscuit, a psych out, another reason to be more sinfully gluten without guilt. Oatmeal raisin cookies, with toasted almonds. Slightly crisp and darker brown around the edges yet chewy with the sticky bite from the golden raisins. Almonds lend a pleasant crunch.

I lay one pretty side down, and reach for the freezer door. A tub of French vanilla ice cream stands idling waiting. The blast of frozen air runs up my arm which triggers a chain reaction of goosebumps as I wiggle the tub from its frozen dungeon.

I really don't have time to dig around for that ice cream scoop, and who would care if I broke the rules? Bad means breaking rules...even culinary ones. So I reach for a soup spoon instead. I dive deep into the icy container and shovel clumsily a hefty helping of creamy, slightly ivory French vanilla and force it face-first onto the cookie. Spread it out? No, I press it down with another oatmeal raisin cookie and lick the circumference making it smooth and level.  I swear, I'm lady like but when no one is watching...heh

I repeat the process again and place my sexy little oatmeal ice cream sandwiches in the freezer to firm up. No one likes mushy cookies...or melted ice cream.

Will this been enough? Enough to satiate my devilish appetite? I think to myself, now just eating a few scoops of ice cream solo as I ponder the next player to be added to the bedtime lineup.  

I walk over to the kitchen table where a display of store-bought delights, from Twinkies to Passion Flakies. Chocolate bars to marshmallows but there stood in the middle as it to raise up out of the stage, into the spotlight on a platform of glass. The main event. Covered in a dome crystal clear, an angel. 

An angel so soft, delicate and light. She could sprout wings and fly away as I lift her cage up and over her head. I glide my knife through her, clipping her wings, I think she was begging me to do it.  I don't lose a crumb. Angels usually keep their feathers and she was no different.

I lay her down on a dinner plate. She needed the space for what I was about to do next. I sweep myself across the kitchen again and find some awkward looking strawberries sitting by a fruit basket.  I quickly hull them and drop them into a mixing bowl. I find a jar of powdered sugar and tip it over dusting the ruby fruit with a mini mountain of sweet snow. A small puff meanders up to my nose and almost provokes a sneeze, but the sensation subsides. I lick my sugary fingers and agree with myself this will be a delight. I begin to do the deed.

I press with a fork, causing the berries to bleed. I puncture the flesh and the crimson red drips and spreads turning the ivory white pink. I crush and prod, aggressively mincing the sweet hearts into a pulp.  Funny how strawberries remind me of hearts. Sometimes you find a heart that's bitter, tough, may be older or picked from life too soon. The ones in need of sweetening.  Sometimes, you'll find a heart that's just at the right moment, one that's perfectly ripe. Ready to be had. Open to possibility.  I pause and sigh. Funny...Strawberries.

I take the slaughtered hearts and pour them over my innocent angel.  The rouge liquid tumbles over her, staining what was once so pure.  I don't mind. I'm going to enjoy this, and it will all be worth the caloric blast to my hips. Happy once again to be in the midst of decadence and no one else.

But no, I need more. A balance.  Two sweets and no savoury? I scramble to squeeze 'whipped cream from a can' all over my heavenly concoction. Like slapping a tacky polyester bow on a Vera Wang custom designed French lace gown, I swirl a cloud of cream on my not-so-pure dessert and set it aside to head back to the pantry.

If you know me at all personally, and by now I feel if you follow a little with my writing, I have a massive sweet tooth. How it hasn't rotted and caused me pain is beyond me and touch wood...it won't bother me for a long time to come. But that doesn't mean I don't appreciate the savoury side of life. I very often in these moments look for comfort in something that no matter how much you start out eating it delicately you end shoveling in your mouth shamelessly!

That weakness is popcorn.  Oh the salty crackle of puffed corn kernels melting in my mouth reminds me of childhood! A time when you can get away with a little careless spills, wiping your greasy fingertips on your jeans or your chin on the back of sleeves. Hmm yes, popcorn feels so guilt-free at times, or so I tell myself.  It's a whole grain, right?

I shimmy a bag of the microwavable kind out of a box at the top of the pantry.  Tippy-toeing as I'm too eager to run back and get a chair to bring me safely to my top-shelf destination. I aggressively unwrap the token white bag from its clear casing and toss it into Chef Mike.  2 minutes and I'm set.

I dress up the Amazonian serving tray with a high-ball glass clinking gently from the ice I dropped inside.  I double shot of rum and top it off with a Pepsi. A hiss and fizzle as the carbonated foam reaches a scary height but manages to keep its composure beneath the rim. 

And soon enough the smell of buttery freshly popped popcorn fills the kitchen and makes me wish I could eat the air.  I breath through my mouth and think edible air! With an index finger and thumb I pull the piping hot bag out of the grips of Chef Mike and pry it open. A buttery steam lashes gently on my face and I soon get excited with anticipation. No time for a bowl. The bag will have to do.

In true restaurant fashion I precariously balance my dirty angel, my 'good for you' sandwiches and bag of popcorn on the jungle tray.  In one hand I hold firmly the concoctions of the evening, and in the other the hem of my turquoise satin gown.  I sway myself up the stairs and around the banister to a room dimly lit and sheets pulled back. The hum of the television still evident as I didn't switch it off when I left the room all those minutes ago.  

I hike up the gown further and climb in. Cushioning myself with fluffy pillows and the remote flipping on a DVD of "The Godfather" (my all-time fave btw) as I settle in. I still hear my iPod whispering in the background, "You're my everything" by Mary J. Blige. 

I press my lips around the icy sandwich as Vito Corleone double kisses Michael and eyes grow wider.  I quickly sop up the melted cream, slurping not to drop a single bit on my satin lover for the night. Since she is the only who sees me in the bare right now. I frantically move on to the next one and Sonny and Clamenza are arguing about Paulie being conveniently unavailable.

The iPod makes a full turn and brings me back to Amy Winehouse. And I begin chomping away at popcorn. The butter richness is a pleasant break from the cinnamon and raisins. Savoury so that it makes my lips smack!  Isolation. Gun shots and the body of Sonny Corleone lays on the pavement by the toll booth, like Swiss cheese. I sink further into bed. I pick the kernels off my dress and devour them without blinking.

Eating in bed may seem a bit silly, maybe a bit of bad form but when you're on your own and you need to really relish a moment, formalities go out the door.  There's an art to it. Choosing the right food for the right purpose, with minimal crumbs or if there's gonna be crumbs, the crumble should be easy enough to fluff off the sheets.  Chewy cookies, not crunchy. Popcorn vs potato chips and cakes are all game!  Cheesecake if you can swing it!

Speaking of cake...

My eyes swell with tears as they always do when I see the scene of Michael and Appelonia, first meeting and falling in love.  I know what the future looks like for them and it's bitter sweet. I then look down at my angel.  A cake light and sweet. No distinct flavour other than the wicked red strawberry mayhem that I splashed all over her.  The mountain of whipped cream now taking a lean to the side. 

Like hot siren red lipstick on porcelain skin, I don't bother using the fork, instead I break into her with my fingers.  Smudging her rouge across the plate, dipping her into the chantilly and place her on my tongue without it brushing my lips.  

Now. This. This is good. This is right. I hike up the sheets to my chest and stare up at the screen.  A car bomb goes off. Appelonia poor girl. And tears roll down my cheek.

A bed...the covers...indulgent wickedness and me.

Between am I. 

xo,

A Girl Who Likes to Cook

Apartment 303

The heat of July in the city, hot breeze and steamy concrete. Toronto, humid and hazy, with bustling people and street cars screeching along.  Beck Taxis in their bright orange and green logos dodge each other in the wall to wall traffic. 

The drive was energetic, full of things to look at, people to make up storied about as they stroll along, and action to be had.  This was prime time for a country girl like me.

July and it's summer. And July is the time for a wedding. 

My cousin was arranged to be married, and the wedding was tomorrow. I, being 8 years old at the time, was more thrilled about the party dress I'd wear the night of the reception than the fact I'd be giving away yet another sister in holy matrimony. There's 24 cousins now, a lot more of us to give away...little did I know back then.

As a sister, no matter the age, it is your duty to be there to watch your sister become a bride and leave your home. Dress her up, douse her fair skin with a mixture of turmeric and coconut oil, help her with her jewelry, shower her with scents like jasmine, sandalwood and rose water. Why? At that age, I didn't really know or thought to ask questions. It was my loving duty to be with her as she stopped being sister and began being wife. It was the excitement of it all that intrigued me.

Wedding time and the journey begins for my cousin, my sister. And the fun begins for me.

A brick path way with a raised wooden edge meanders to the lobby door.  I never liked the building; I found it rough and haphazard.  

The smell of the grass was strong and mineral like, coupled with an old stale appearance.  I dare not touch the lawn. I titter one foot in front of the other balancing on the wooden planks all the way up to the door. A challenge to not touch the grass or the zig-zag bricks I had mastered over the years of visiting Ajee, my paternal grandmother.

I could always tell who was already there at Ajee’s as I recognized the cars of my aunts and uncles in the small parking lot. Knowing that I would have company to play with was always a plus. Brother dearest, tiny fellow at the time with his chubby knees and round China doll face was lifted and carried by mom and dad fetched large grocery bags with vegetables. 

The lobby door had glass windows that were always cracked and broken.  Sometimes the door was permanently unlocked with no need to press the buzzer number.  This time the glass was gone so I stooped down and went through the window pane. A scolding came afterwards from mom.

I look down at my Kermit the Frog digital watch and it says it’s still morning. The day is getting started. 

Running to jam the button to call the elevator. Now I know we are in for fun, the excitement began to build in my belly!  Dad, however, bypasses the elevator and takes the stairs. Later it was discovered he was claustrophobic and hated that elevator in particular.

Apartment 303, so press 3 – I say to myself.

Ding! The door opens and I turn to my left.  Grey, red and black carpet and off-white walls dotted with bright orange doors. A familiar hallway.  The smell of browning comes floating my way.  The emergency exit door at the end of the hall opens and Dad steps out.  Apartment 303’s door swings open…

“Eh man! You know we waitin’ on dis pumpkin all morning!?” my uncle teases yet scolds my father for being behind schedule while taking the bags from my dad’s hands.

Dad smiles a big toothy grin and laughs, “Come, let’s cook!” he says hugging his much older brother.

Mom struggles to hold my brother, and decides to set him down to use his own sausage-like legs. He runs frantically up to the door, bursting past me to get into apartment 303.  As he whirls by, I pick up the pace and as I approach the smell becomes more intense. By the time I get through the door and pull my shoes off, the scent bowls me over!

Chaos!

Voices yelling across the room, arms stretched out passing shiny stainless steel bowls from one end of the apartment to another.  The floor covered in white sheets and ladies sit in circles peeling the pumpkin pieces my father just brought in.  Another group, men this time, peeled potatoes and kur-plunked them into a blue plastic bucket full of water.

Ajee and her friends roll puris - a deep fried flat bread, and fling them like Frisbees on a folded white sheet, as my dad’s brother, with his specks of sweat beading off his forehead, pick up the puris and lay them in the oil. Dad’s sister sits on a stool slowly pushing them around with a wooden paddle. As they become golden she lifts them out as a few more ladies dab the excess oil off and lay them in the trade marked foil trays.

The whistle of a pressure cooker goes off and the hiss of oil tempering jeera (cumin in Hindi) and garlic sizzles. The air is filled with the robust smell of spices and smoke. Garam Masala mist.

My girl cousins grab my hand and pull me through the kitchen.  We sit around the table, little plastic sandwich bags and a disposable foil tray of warm Prasad (blessed offerings) sits on one end. Beside this tray is another tray little white hockey pucks of pedha with thumb prints in the middle. Crunchy sugar coated meethai - like a sugar encrusted fritter, curled like gnarled branches of a tree in the final tray.

Aunty lines the 3 of us girls up a chair for each.  A sweet assembly line we were. Each of us given the task to put together Prasad parcels for our cousin’s wedding.  This was important, she noted. It will be blessed by the priest and given to every guest who comes to the wedding. Each guest will leave with something blessed by God and with only sweet words to say about the newly wed couple.  Romantic, right?

Too young to fry puries, peel vegetables or chop spinach.  But too old to sit by and do nothing.  So this was our something.

“You will put so-much in the bag,” she explained to me, showing me a sample size.  Plopping it in the plastic baggy and setting it down in front of the next girl to place the pedha, and the last to follow is the girl with the crispy meethai.

I stuck my fingers into the warm doughy mass and pinched off a lump.  The smell of cardamom and butter stuck to my hands.  The oily bundle was rolled and dropped into the sandwich bag and placed beside my sister cousin.

“Taste it! Does it have cherries or raisins?” asked the eldest of us three assembly girls, responsible for the meethai, as she cracked a piece of the fritter with her teeth and chewed ever so loudly.

I give in to the peer pressure and taste the creamy starchy sweet.  The Holy offering melts in my mouth as I chew on the gold raisins left behind.  Its warm texture tastes like butter with a hint of parched caramel and a back-note of vanilla.

“Raisins,” I say, while scrunching my nose in disapproval. “Give me a piece of that, is it good?” I ask.

I reach across and grab a piece of meethai and clamp down with a crack.  I hear the snap of the crunchy sweet resonate through my skull. Hard and crumbly at the same time, I decided I liked it and reached for another sample.

My sister cousin the in the middle also reaches for a piece and the three of us looked at each other with a sign of approval.

Pedha was next as we all went picking through for the bigger ones.  A fudge made of pure milk, sugar and butter, these were special.  Our elder cousin, in her late teens at the time, stirred the next batch of pedha.  Non-stop, her boney arm which had been set on ‘auto-pilot’ swirled that wooden pot spoon round and around.  A perpetual pedha production. A labour of sisterly love. It was her older sister set to marry in the morning.

The sharp sweetness was addictive.  We had been under a spell.  A spell of sweet and sugar.  A Holy Possession.  These weren't chocolates or candies. These were not your Jordan Almonds or white chocolate truffles you give away on the receiving table. Oh these were much more than that. These must be homemade, made with love, and blessed. They were Godly. Everything seemed Godly in Ajee's Apartment number 303. 

We couldn't help ourselves as we cracked into the meethai by the fistful.  The special parceling task was set to the side as we sat and enjoyed the view.

The spitting of hot oil, the bursts of laughter, and the vibrant colours piled up in silvery basins.  

Bright orange pumpkin, shiny verdant green spinach, rich red tomatoes and happy yellow pearls of chickpeas being soaked in a pool of water.

It was like a show full of edible colours. 

Assembly lines. Sweet, crunchy, oily, buttery. Milky, chewy, salty and spicy.

We sit, we dine and we watch on as a wedding feast comes to life, in the Holy Apartment 303.

xoxo,

A Girl Who Likes to Cook, age 8

A Date Night

Alone in a house. A fall evening and I've been stood up.

Yes, stood up.

The Captain, the one who never bought curtains for his apartment. The one who smelled of Hugo Boss left me hanging. Bitter? No. Well...okay a little. But also relieved, a little.

Alone in the house an I don't mind at all.

Date night for one ;-)

I peel off the dress I was wearing. I went through the trouble to put on make up too. I'll keep that. I did a good job on it, would be a shame to wash it away. Pulled on my grey yoga pants and a tee. No, a tank top. Hell I'm home, I can wear my prom dress if I wanted to!!

A flashback to my prom. I went with the guy who was voted "Most Likely to Succeed" after high school. I bet HE wouldn't have stood me up! Don't be bitter. Move on.

A violent crack of thunder and the pitter-patter of rain begins. A flash of lightening illuminates the house. I admit, my heart did leap. Thunder and lighting is exciting to me. Something about the world being taken over by itself for a moment and not by anyone else is awe-inspiring. Thunder and lighting can be creepy romantic. Scary and thrilling. 

I hear another sound. A gurgle. My tummy is seeking attention. It too has a mind of its own.

I tip-toe down the stairs and swing around the banister into the kitchen. A flash of lightening flickers through the kitchen window, oooh how lovely and mysterious nature is! 

I turned on the light in the hood of the stove. No need to turn on all the lights and kill the mood. 

I had planned a beautiful menu for that evening. An evening for two. Minus one. So a beautiful menu for one. I had already done my mise en place. Shallots diced, garlic minced, a bottle of Reisling chilling in the fridge. Yes, the wine.  

I mosey over to the china hutch and pull out one of mom's nice wine glasses. You know, the ones for company but not just any company...good company? Ya. Screw it. I'm good company! Cheers to date night!

A glug or two into the glass and plug in my ear buds. iPod, work your magic! The Beatles playlist. A little Twist and Shout on the kitchen tiles should get this party for one rolling.

I turn on the burner and swirl olive oil into the pan and allow it to warm up. I pulled the chicken breast I had marinating from that morning. I laid it in the hot fat and allowed it to sizzle away.  The aroma of woodsy rosemary fills my nose and my mind eats up the air anticipating how wonderful dinner will be.

In another skillet I repeat the process but this time adding shallots. What is it about the pungent smell of onions that evokes hunger? Garlic and mushrooms follow and I push it around with a wooden spoon.  

Arborio rice. Pearls of white grain. I scatter a palm full into the warm pan and swish it around in the infused olive oil. I sip my wine. I look at the glass and and I glance down at the sizzling pan. I tip the wheat coloured Reisling into the pan and the vigorous bubble begins.  I stir again and allow the liquid to absorb.

Risotto gently comes to life on the stove as I enjoy my beverage. The chicken takes her time cooking and growing delicious and brown.

Mmm risotto. It's a therapeutic dish I find. Its a dish that inevitably allows you to think and reflect as you cook it.  Slowly I splash my warm chicken stock over the beads of rice, turning it clockwise, then counterclockwise as it releases itself developing a rice with a lovely creamy consistency.

My mind wonders. What was he doing that was so important that he'd turn down my risotto? I mean, come one...it's risotto! It must be a good reason, I mean he is a Captain. I thought of a loving excuse and carried on swishing and swirling.

I'm Looking Through You, is next on the play list as I pour another glass of wine and simultaneously yank the fridge door out and pull out a wedge of Parmesan cheese.  I gently unwrap it and begin to grate away snowy curls of salty robust cheese. I held the shredded shards in my hand and dust it into a bowl on stand by. The perfume of milky cheese stays on my skin. I don't mind. I'm my date tonight.

The thunder grumbles and the rain pours heavily.  I hear the clinks as the drops smack against the drain pipes. Ting! Ting! Like bells from a dark cloudy heaven. Fresh sweet water trickles down the window pane as the evening turns to night.

My kitty Oreo S's her body around my ankles speaking fluent cat love with her meows and purrs. I look down at her lovingly as she sits staring up at me. She always knew precisely when to be around to keep me company. Like that girlfriend who called you right when you had a nasty fight with your boyfriend to say, "Uh, screw it! Let's get our nails done!" just to keep you distracted from the drama of life. Sweet Oreo.

The plump chicken breast waits on a side plate as I spoon in a generous knob of butter into my elegant dish. 

I watch the butter sigh an awe of relief as it melts and tumbles over and through the nooks and caverns of silky rice.  I gently lift and fold, blending the shiny yellow with the pale white watching the satin risotto come together. And as a final flourish I dusted the grated Parmesan cheese. A sweet perfume steamed up to my face and I breathed in deeply.  Decadent, smooth, just al dente. 

A rainy night alone.

I plated my meal, restaurant style. Slices of succulent chicken fanned delicately over a small mountain of risotto. A garnish? Why not, I do deserve a pretty plate.

I lit a candle and placed it on the coffee table and turned the fire place on. 

I sat on the floor, gently humming "And I love her" and dined.

Claps of thunder.
Flashes of lightening.
Satin white risotto.

Unexpected date night. 

An evening of storm and rain, alone in this house. Stood up. Yoga pants and candle light. Curled eyelashes and red lipstick. Paul and John whispering in my ear. 

A dinner for one.

xo,

The Girl who Likes to Cook