Get to Know The Girl

Just a little about me...very little..

It's not a blog post so much as it is a bit of bio on The Girl ;)

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What is today's date? February 17, 2016

What time is it right now? 8:03 pm - local time

*PERSONAL DETAILS

Nicknames? You can just call me "The Girl" others call me Rani

Where do you live? I'm a global citizen

What's your age? Old enough

Hair color? Black

Eye color? Dark brown - black

Height? 5' 2"

Star Sign? I sting quite hot ;-) Scorpio

Element? Water

Obsessions? Micropoetry, Cooking, Learning

Bad habits? Is biting my lip a bad habit? I do that a lot

Phobias? Spiders...*shivers*


*ABOUT YOU

What makes you happy? Besides friends/Family...my passion for cooking and feeding others, learning and teaching others, and of course a great laugh from the heart!

What really irritates you? Malicious people, racism, general rudeness (especially the phrase 'shut up')

What makes you sad? Dishonesty and manipulation, and disrespect.

What makes you angry? Traffic

What makes you scared? Not being able to do enough for those I love when the time comes

Who is your best friend? :) How do I choose?

Ever broken a bone? Nope! *knock on wood*

What's the best advice you've ever received? Don't do anything in your life that you feel you have to say "I'm sorry" for & Take care of your mind and body...you only have one of each (parents)

What was the last CD you bought? Ed Sheeran X

What was the last book you read? Lean In - currently reading

Who was the last person you spoke to? The Security guard of my building

What was the last thing you ate? Turtles Chocolate Candy

What was the last thing you drank? Coconut Water

What's the best thing you've ever bought? Right now, I have to say I'm really happy I bought a laptop so I can write again!

What's the worst thing you've ever bought? I don't think I've made such a huge blunder with money but I have bought some pieces of clothes that are questionable.

What's the best thing you've ever been given? My life - Don't ever take it for granted

What's the worst thing you've ever been given? These silly electric bedroom slippers that were supposed to 'massage' my feet. 

What are your future goals? To own a bed & breakfast, create a holistic, calm and relaxing get-away that would be family run :) I'd have a lovely little garden out back growing tomatoes and carrots. I can even picture the linens!

Describe your bedroom? White sheets, white pillows, a desk, my blue-tooth speakers to listen to music, 2 very large windows and some unfolded laundry. That's the technical part but my room is spacious, relaxing and my hide-out ;)

What's your most embarrassing moment? I've had uncomfortable moments but nothing so embarrassing. If I did have an embarrassing moment, I've done a fantastic job repressing it!

Who do you consider the most beautiful woman in the world? My mother. Why? Because she's got a big heart but she doesn't take s*** from anyone. She taught me to appreciate the gift of health and a strong body and even stronger mind.  If I can be half the woman she is, I'd be super lucky!

Who do you consider the most handsome man in the world? Haha :) He's got the most kindest eyes, hair I want to push my finger tips through, and delicious lips. The handsomest man to me...well he would know who he is the second I lay my eyes on him ;)

Favorite thing to do on a hot summers day? Hot summer days call for a cold beverage rum-laced preferably, something delicious on the BBQ cooking away and my notebook...to write

Favorite thing to do on a snowy winters day? snuggle...

If you were granted 3 wishes, what would they be? 1) To always be associated with the ability to make those around me smile 2) Generally, I'd like to know that everyone can eat well, sleep in peace and have a safe place to live 3) Don't think I need the last wish...

If you could go back in time to see or change something, when would it be and what would you do? I don't think there's anything I'd go back and change...things turn out the way they do for a reason

What's the first thing you think about when you wake up? "5 more minutes"

Have you ever been in love? Yes

Do you believe in the after-life? Yes...

Where do you see yourself in 10 years time? Hmm, with a family, a B&B, healthy, content (financially, emotionally & spiritually), with a holistic life...peace of mind and surrounded by those I love

Do you have any regrets in life? Not really, no.

What advice would you give to a kid? Anything is possible if you work smart and trust your instincts.  Also have as much fun as you can before it becomes too late...

Any hidden talents? It's hidden for a reason...cheeky cheeky!!!

Is yours an 'innie' or 'outie'? Innie

Last job? Sales Manager - CUT by Wolfgang Puck

Current job? See above - in theory

Dream job? Besides the B&B owner and operator? A teacher in Food Theory

Who is your hero? My Dad

Describe yourself in 3 words: Loyal, Witty, Smart

*FAVORITES

Favorite color? Purple

Favorite number? 15

Favorite animal? Indian Elephant

Favorite sport (to play)? Baseball

Favorite sport (to watch)? I watch a variety of sports. From cricket to football, golf to even F1...depends on my mood

Favorite Show(s)? Game of Thrones, House of Cards, New Girl....etc

Favorite movies? Godfather Trilogy, Goodfellas, Sound of Music, Mary Poppins, Shawshank Redemption gosh...too much to choose from...

Favorite band? The Beatles

Favorite song? Blackbird - The Beatles, You're in my heart - Rod Stewart

Favorite room in the house? The Kitchen...obviously

Favorite board game? Balderdash

Favorite food? Sushi, just about anything my mother or father makes, pancakes :)

Favorite fast-food? French Fries...no preference on the outlet...

Favorite drink? Non-alky - Coffee...Alky - mojito

Favorite magazine? Shape

Favorite place? The Kitchen or my bed...it a toss up

Favorite cartoon character? Homer - lol just super funny to me

Favorite day of the week? Friday

Favorite day of the year? Christmas

Favorite season? Fall - the colours are inspiring

Favorite holiday? Christmas!

Favorite country? Canada - Je suis Canadien! And Guyana...

Favorite smell? The smell of something browning :) See previous blog post 

Favorite sound? Laughter

Favorite accent? mmm...if you know me...you know the answer to that...


*PREFERENCES

Coke or Pepsi? Pepsi...

Pen or Pencil? Pen - Black

Day or Night? Night baby

Cat or Dog? Dog

Summer or Winter? Summer - in Canada to be specific 

T.V. or Radio? TV

Brains or Beauty? Beautiful Brains....

Cup or Mug? Mug

Tea or Coffee? Coffee or Chai!!

Gold or Silver? No preference

Brush or Comb? Brush

City or Country? Tropical country side...palm trees, sweet breeze, lush jungle...

Red or White wine? White

Early or Late riser? Late...I like being cozy

Scary or Romantic movies? Scary...

Board or Computer games? Hello board games!!!

Half full or Half empty? I've share of both kinds of moments...but I choose to see it as half full

Happy and poor or Sad and rich? Who says the one has to be the other? Why set limits??? I choose happy regardless of the account balance

Glasses or Contacts? I rock either one depending on my vibe

Flowers or Chocolates? Chocolates...always

Love or Money? Love...always

Hugs or Kisses? Kisses...always


*RIGHT HERE, RIGHT NOW

What are you wearing? Blue jeans and a grey sweater

What's the latest news? My Twitter feed is posting updates about poor air quality in Beijing and Delhi - CNN

What's the weather like? It's Dark and cool outside...a lovely night for a stroll

How do you feel? I'm blushing at the moment...a tingly feeling along my collar and neck that creeps up to my cheeks...


*WHEN WAS THE LAST TIME YOU...

Cried? This morning - at the airport

Laughed? Today

Swore? Today

Lied? Not in a while

Got drunk? Oh it's been a while...

Read a newspaper? Online...couple days ago

Read your horoscope? I don't check it as often as I'd like...thanks for reminding me!

Had a bath/shower? This morning

Had a cold? not in a very long time...*knock on wood!*

Smiled at someone? Today

Gave someone a cuddle? :) Does Mr. Pots count  :) - He's my sweet dog

Said, 'I love you'? This morning to my parents...*sigh*



*THE OPPOSITE SEX

What is a turn on? Self confidence, a man who can carry himself and knows what he wants...

What is a turn off? Ego, too much bravado, uncertainty in his actions...

What physical feature are you attracted to the most? Eyes...and lips that make a killer smile

Best pick up line? Please...no pick up lines! Say it! "I like you! Let's go out and see where it goes!" massive turn on...no script necessary

What's the most irritating thing about them? Mean what you say...say what you mean...Please don't make me read your mind...nothing more annoying and that's general rule for people I feel.

Could you live without them? Mmmm...I can, but the question should be do I want to?

Describe your ideal partner? :) I won't put those expectations and limitations out into the universe. Why? Because my ideal partner would never put those expectations or limitations on me....

What time is it now? 9:10pm

The Go-To..

She hiked up her skirt
Climbed in to her car
Learning her lesson
Cracking her last skirt
Up her thigh last time.

A rumble.
From the engine?
Ah from her stomach
Curious what her kitchen
Will create.

Pulling in the parking lot
Eager to get inside
Appetite wide open

Work hard, play hard

She says to herself

You can afford to spoil yourself

Pushing the key in

Twist twice

Door unlocks

Drop the purse

Toss the keys on the counter

Locking the door behind her

Without hesitation

She kicks her right leg back

Pulling off her patent pump

With her left hand

Repeat the other side

She can't be bothered to wait

To her room she walks

Unzipping her pencil skirt

Untucking her blouse

Walking undressing

She returns to her kitchen

Hum of florescent bulbs

The buzz from the refrigerator

How pleasant is white noise?

Silence is comforting

After many years of noise

Happy in solitude

Uncorking her Merlot

No need for a wine glass

An old fashion glass sitting

On the dish rack will do.

Sipping she turns on her stove

She looks down, her shorts are loose

Sitting below her hips

The pink jersey she wore

Just as frumpy

She kept her pearls on

Habit

Opened her tiny fridge

Where prawns wait

Grey and drab 

Her kitchen is pleading

Hoping she makes something

Wonderful!

It's the go-to

The save-all

You know, the one dish

Cure for hunger

A pot and a skillet

She starts boiling water in a kettle

While she dresses her prawns

Olive oil - extra virgin

Chili flakes

Sea salt and cracked black

Crushing garlic with the back of her knife

She jumps!

A hot whistle 

From her busty red kettle

Some appliances are cheeky

She laughed at her own joke

"Well aren't you fresh!" she says

To her kettle as she lifts it up

Pouring it's contents into the pot

A fist full of salt into her water

To taste like the sea! Remembering

Chef Chalet - first year Culinary College

Lemon zest

Chopped parsley

Shrimp are dressed

Her knife skills still sharp

No pun intended

She quickly glides through

Capsicum - red and yellow

A Spanish onion gets sliced wafer thin

Sip - Merlot

Her pan is pumping a heat

So hot it can smoke

This is the time

Fresh tagliatelle sits in a bowl

Canary yellow, curled and intertwined

Like a messy wig no one bothered to

Untangle

A fat splash of olive oil

It begins to bead and smoke

Onions and peppers first

A loud sizzle

Careless, she allows oil to pitch

Falling on her forearm

Immediate reaction was to place

Her lips over it, licking it cool

It's okay, a little pain

Worth the sacrifice

Garlic then prawns

No need to look,

As she tossed and flicked her pan

Watching shrimp sprout wings

Jumping and landing

In a delicious acrobatic trance

Pasta takes a bath

Plunging into a salty hot tub

Her tongs detangle what was

Blonde chaos

In a matter of minutes

A meal comes together

Tagliatelle gets lifted up

Carried to the pan of prawns

A spoonful of chili pesto

Slips and coats making everything

Orange and gold

A handful of verdant spinach

Folds in wilting and collapsing

Done. She smiles.

Her hair, once whisked up

Now tumbles down her back

A place is set

Old fashioned glass

Merlot stands idle

She plates neatly

As food should look good

And taste good

Wiping the edges clean

She places it on the table set for one

Less than 30 minutes

Tossing high heels in the corner

Skirts on beds

Pearls dangling around her neck

Shorts and t-shirts

Cross legged at the table

A stand-by

A dinner

Comforting and warm

This is her go-to 

At the end of her day

End of her rope

But it is also the start of 
What makes dining with her

Wonderful!

xo,

The Girl

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