zed.alexandra

Not born great

Fri, 04 May 2012 01:14:00 -0400

The thing that sometimes grinds me with blogs is that everything looks perfect. When someone posts a recipe with beautiful pictures, its not the first time they’ve made it. & if it is, everything is still composed in some way. Nice light on the strawberries, extra oil for that glisten, move that towel to curve around like it was just tossed…

What you don’t see is how things sometimes don’t turn out. You don’t see the practise. The work. Its like those drawing books that are “Draw a circle; shade it; now you’re Rembrant”

I recently got a new job-a real precious opportunity to learn more about food than I ever have before. I am so humbled by how much I don’t know, almost to the point of embarrassment, but so far I have not been put to any real test. A real test would be to make an Omelette. An Omelette that is on the menu, on my station, that I am responsible for.

On my first brunch last week, maybe since I was in training, other folks did some up when it was ordered. My chef came over as I watched & said “Soon you’ll be tested”. I coolly nodded, in an ‘of course’ kind of way. But on the inside I was shitting myself because—wait for it—

I’ve never cooked an Omelette.

Cue that episode of Kitchen Nightmares UK when Ramsey’s reaming out that guy for being a cook whose never made an Omelette. But I can’t help it—I was never around it. I barely worked breakfasts before. I don’t even remember doing it in cooking school, 7 years ago. I wasn’t even particularly interested in eating one. It was just never on my radar. However, now that I’m more serious about cooking, I see its a thing. A mark of skill, of our trade. Despite how “easy” it seems, it’s all about technique. I didn’t even know you pull the egg toward the center and let the gaps fill in. All I knew were the Omlettes I got in cheap diners as a kid, the American Half-Folded, with Kraft Singles spilling out, congealing on the surface of the lukewarm plate. I crossed my fingers for the rest of the week that I would not have an Omelette run through that chit machine at lunch. I prayed & prayed. Good luck for me, my number never came up. So on my weekend, I knew what I had to do.

My first Omelettes, left to rght, trying to make Jacques Pepin proud…or at least not have him roll his eyes.

Let me tell you: Omelettes are SUPER FUN!!! Well, for me, perfecting technique is fun. Through the near decade of learning, teaching myself how to draw, I notice it’s not that I’m a perfectionist, I just demand the most of myself. To be able to handle one’s abilities is so cool. Its this exploration, romping into the unknown, into things you know you are not quite capable of yet, but one day, you won’t even be able to recall how you weren’t because now it’s part of your very essence.

I knew that when I would get called upon for the egg, I would suck. Part of it is pride: I didn’t want to fall in front of all my judges. I would rather get a C- than an A for effort. & it’s much more relaxing to fucking suck in your own home than when it counts more & is for a real audience. This hour long egg-sploration (AAAAAH HA HA) wasn’t even blog worthy I thought. Because who wants to see shitty eggs, right? Well, fuck it. I want people to see how I couldn’t do it—then a carton later, got the gist, ending up with this:

It’s not perfect. That kind of takes, um, years. The edges are a tad clumpy & foldy, but I have the idea of no colour & that softness you need on the inside-also, the respect of letting it do it’s thing & not fucking with it too much. You just kind of help it get to it’s shape, but you need to trust the egg to be it’s glorious self, & things’ll eventually just roll together. It’s a relationship, food & your hands. Based on trust, knowledge & instinct.

I’m not afraid to suck & make mistakes, but it’s true that for my food blog I want things to look good, to showcase some of the fun things I enjoy doing & have them shine. But it’s also interesting to reveal the side of me that is inconsistant, having a difficult time, in process—a chronology of where one’s from to where one will end up being.

I might tweak under pressure of making an Omlette for an order—an hour’s worth of Omelette making does not an expert make, but at least I got a jump on myself. & unlike my drawing, it’s the process of cooking that I enjoy sharing. I like working through my imperfection, & I don’t mind letting it show because I’m too stoked about food & learning to let my novice get in the way of myself.

& now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got some eggs waiting: It’s dinner time.

Stock

Fri, 06 Apr 2012 16:35:00 -0400

As I talked Love about Veal Stock in the last post, I thought I’d show how I made it. Its really easy & super cheap-I got mine from *Windsor Meats in my neighbourhood.

First, roast your bones. You can blanched them before too, to get some impurities out, but it’s a bit too finicky for me.

If you see at the top left hand corner, a couple bones filled with yellowish stuff-thats marrow & its fucking delicious, hot & sprinkled with salt.

It’s raw, & just look at that shit GLISTEN!!!

I digress…I loaded the tray with aromatics & some bay leaf & just let it cook til it was brown, then turned the bones over making sure I got the best out of both sides. I also roasted a tray of additional veg-carrots, celery, onion-only lightly. Tomatoes & Rosemary also made a slight appearance, due to it’s scarcity in my fridge. Because I was impatient, I roasted the veg to a blondish hue, just slightly caramelized, so you must note that the deeper you roast them will affect taste & colour of the end product.

Once everything’s cooked off, throw it in a pot and fill until the water covers the bones. Dont forget to deglaze your tray of meat! I didn’t have any booze on hand (I know, I know—what the Hell?!) but red wine is GREAT for Veal. So, I made it work with water, a last resort but it’s better letting all that crispy run-off go to waste.

Once you’ve scraped off the goodness into the pot, let it come to just under a boil, then reduce heat to simmer or less, having a bubble or two popping up to the surface. LET IT GO. 6 hours at least or even overnight. Admittedly, I let mine do its thing for probably 5 hours-some drawing and a few X-Files later, I wanted to see what was up. And as I said: Impatient.

As you can see, its more summery in colour, but I wasn’t worried about it considering the great bones I had to work with, accounting for my lack of tom paste, four fresh toms & no red wine. I let it reduce another inch, then strained it. The first strain was through a wider sieve that caught most of the chunks & bits, and the following day after it was cooled I re-strained it through my fine mesh strainer, getting the remaining sediment for a smoother, less gritty stock.

What a rainbow of yum! If you are serious about storing things…I really suggest you head to your local restaurant supply store that’s open to the public (they usually are) & get some Cambros. They are great & sturdy for holding all kinds of stuff, especially hot stuff which stock happens to be. You can go the extra mile & cool the bucket in your sink so the liquid cools fast, or plop a couple bottles of frozen water in the stock itself to help chill it out. Just make sure the caps are screwed on tightly, lest they leak & ruin your concentrated goodness. If you want to taste the life you created, ladle some into a cup (or saucepan if it’s not smoking hot anymore) & season with salt. You wont be disappointed.

This is what it looks like when it’s chilled. A layer of fat’s formed that you can easily scoop off. Underneath is a gelatinous liquid; the more wiggly it is the better! I recommend portioning it up & freezing it. You could even do it in ice cube trays for those single serving times, but make sure once its frozen you transfer them out of the trays into something enclosed, or else over time I suspect they will take on freezer flavours.

That’s pretty much it, & its pretty simple. Mind you there are so many variations, and a little pre-research (presearch?) for ingredients & methods on the interweb won’t hurt. Just make sure you read about 5-10 other ways-a kind of comparison shopping-so you can get the jist of it & go on your own interests and intuition.

Have fun! And don’t forget to season!

______________________________________

*http://www.vancouverplus.ca/vancouver/venues/windsor-quality-meats

While You Were Snoring...

Fri, 06 Apr 2012 04:36:00 -0400

You know those times where you cant see the end of the tunnel? The now is just endless, stretching on and on, suspending you marshmallow like in the hell that is upside down gelatin cake? On my last night in Seattle, the hostel dice tossed my room a snore-er. I’ve stayed in my share of Hostels, but this one took the cake. 3 hours had passed & I got no closer to sleep, so I decided to try to go to bed in the common room instead. Unfortunately for me, it was taken by people hanging out. It was around 2 30 in the morning & at that moment, I hated life passionately. I just wanted to sleep. But I mellowed out quickly & had some good chats.

One in particular, had a lasting effect. Me & this random guy (who happens to be a YouTube Star…but I’m not saying which one) began talking about food. Conversations of cabbage soup ensued, & he had me recollecting a great love of mine: making stock.

I had bought some veal bones weeks ago, but had frozen them and put it off. But somehow, our 3 a.m conversation got under me & reminded me of how much I like making soup, even though I am fair-weathered in consuming it.

So. On my last day off I dug them out of my freezer, scored some fresh veg & made myself some stock. I really enjoyed Michael Ruhlman’s discussion in The Elements of Cooking that highly encourages homecooks to make stock constantly-especially Veal. I really liked the idea, but actually never have had stock on hand, just, whenever.

But tonight, it all changed. When I came home from work at 1230 am, sweaty, feet stinking I rescued my limp kale; julienned some red cabbage; sauteed off onions & leeks; dumped a shitload of veal stock on top & let it bubble away. Salt. Then: Holy. Fuck.

I SERIOUSLY don’t know why ANYONE WOULDN’T ALWAYS have veal stock around. I can’t…describe how tasty this was after a long day—made especially deliciously by the fact it took me no longer that 7 minutes to put it all together. This is such a great, hearty soup, and I owe it all to circumstance & a wee bit of knowledge.

So, thank god that guy was snoring. Blessing in disguise.

Kale & Cabbage Soup

1 bunch Kale {woody ends chopped off if you don’t like ‘em, myself, I dont care}

1 overflowing handful of julienned Red Cabbage

3 med bay leaves, preferably fresh

1 small onion

1 bottom half of a thick leek

Enough Veal Stock to cover the veg; more if you like a more broth-y soup

Garnish with whatever. I just happened to have some Cilantro on hand.

Heat oil in a pot, hot enough so when you drop in your aromatics they sizzle. Let them go til near translucent {I like my onions with some soft tooth remaining}. Bay leaves now. After the leaves are coated and glossy with the oil and steeped with the onions a bit, throw in kale, letting it wilt a bit before chucking in the cabbage. When all ingredients are together, stir. Add stock to cover veg. Salt to taste, & don’t be afraid. Salt will open all the flavours. I suggest doing it bit by bit if you are unfamiliar with seasoning. There will be a point where you’re like “It’s not working”, then suddenly, another pinch and BAM. Your food will of a sudden go from “I think it’s ok?” to “goddamn! Thats good!”

Cleaning house today & I thought it would be fun to organize...

Wed, 04 Apr 2012 18:24:00 -0400

Cleaning house today & I thought it would be fun to organize my pantry and see what I have floating around. Do you know what’s what?

I have begun my leg tattoo work. It’s going to be a...

Tue, 03 Apr 2012 05:39:00 -0400

I have begun my leg tattoo work. It’s going to be a doozy—a couple years in the making. But my tattooist is based here in Van, and is in for the ride. We started with my back calf doing a Japanese food piece which I’m getting coloured next week. I can’t wait for it to get the colour it deserves; wasabi; udon; sashimi; rice; lotus root; the glean of a sharp knife. Im stoked. Then I’m going to do the shin area with a B-B-Q motif. When I was a kid I spent some time in the Carolinas & Texas, and I think it stayed with me. Can’t wait to see what my bud will throw down with grills, meat cuts and mesquite!

I have this little pipe dream of really learning to do sugar...

Tue, 03 Apr 2012 05:26:00 -0400

I have this little pipe dream of really learning to do sugar cookies for a living. This was my first shot at it, learning about flood icing, all that. The babes that do it full time slay me with their talent and dedication. Its hard as hell. A purchase of a Kitchen Aid is on my list…so once I get that I feel like I wont have any more excuses. I just fear a massive amount of cookies spilling out my windows. Like the crazy old cat lady, but with cookies.

As I make dinner at home, I organize things nicely because I...

Tue, 03 Apr 2012 05:21:00 -0400

As I make dinner at home, I organize things nicely because I love arranging food. It’s so dope.

Did some sugar work at 3 a.m & pissed off my neighbours. In...

Tue, 03 Apr 2012 05:18:00 -0400

Did some sugar work at 3 a.m & pissed off my neighbours. In retrospect, I ought to have offered them the fresh caramel as a peace offering…but, I didn’t. Sorry guys! My bad.

Passion: The Basic Necessity

Mon, 02 Apr 2012 19:02:17 -0400

“You dont need a silver fork to eat good food” -Paul Prudhomme

As you are aware by now, I have two lives: I cook and I draw. Drawing, this weekend, took me over to Seattle where I attended the Emerald City Comic-Con. But what I was really looking for was the unexpected, the delightful: a good food experience.

I went to a sushi bar the first night in. I was very excited because it was packed to the rafters. A good sign, right? I sat at the bar and ate to my hearts content. However, at 3 in the morning, I shat til my guts content, sweaty and in gripping pain. Yes, somewhere along the line of rice, raw food and sake, I got the poison. Whenever I am in a place I havent eaten at yet, my go-to pre-emptive strike against food illness is to drink enough to kill whatever contamination that may pass my lips. Alas, this time, it just didn’t work. It was unfortunate, because I love food and am always pissed off when I get ill from an experience. And since I’m a cook, rarely do I think “Oh dear, what food did I eat that was unfortunately off? How regrettable” I think: ” Goddammit, what douchewipe didn’t wash their hands?!”

Anyway. I let bygones be bygones and was back in action the following morning. I spotted a place right around the corner from my hostel for my last evening in town, searching for a good burger. And this place didn’t disappoint.

Local 360 is good. Its based upon the premise of sourcing within a 360 mile radius. On their menu they state: “We have stopped asking, “what is new”, and have begun asking, “what is best”. I felt my heart quiver. Man, I like it. It’s not that new gastronomy isn’t cool, but mostly I dont like eating bubbles; or something that tastes like something and isn’t that something I’m tasting. I used to really be into those small plates that cost twenty-four dollars but as I learn more about food, the less I am impressed by the circus of it. Fuck your compound butter that you announce as compound butter; and Fuck your use of Papyrus font because you think it makes your food list look more exotic; and Fuck your $16 dollar radish salad with bland vinaigrette (personally, I think vinaigrettes should kick the back of your throat for an instant, then settle). Just…be simple, and let the flavours speak for themselves.

This is what Local 360 does, and in my experience, does it well. I had their burger, with bacon and cheese of course, and it was worth it. I got it medium-rare, and medium rare was what I was served. The taste surprised me and after a few chews I realized they had some Pepper-jelly/preserve going on for that echo of relish. GOOD CALL! The sweetness cut the salt and savour of the meats just enough. They used local greens as the lettuce, which is always nice and preferable than one big leaf, for me. Fries were skin on, and I’m a sucker for that whole Less-is-More take. Less labour, more potato; more dynamic to look at, less waste.

The atmosphere was pretty boss too. Wooden everything, nicely drawn up chalkboard menus, an open kitchen, and a bar hosting all local spirits and booze. The melty white candles everywhere were a nice touch. It was comfortable, a crowd ranging in age and demographic, I felt like I’d made a good choice. The fridge was located right beside the kitchen, and was see through. Yes, it was fucking cool for a person like me, stoked about food at every minute. I get to eat it, see it all cooked, and look at how they stock their fridge. Not to mention handy. Holy shitballs, YES.

Look, I’m not picky. If your place is mildly attentive, has good grub at decent cost, I am going to walk away happy. It takes a lot for me to talk shit about you (poisoning me, for one, will do it) and still, if I am displeased, I’m not about to take to Twitter and proclaim my hatred. Yet, in this era, everyone is a critic and everyone feels somehow entitled to spew their distaste when something is not up to their standards. This is why I avoid YELP at all costs until after I have eaten.

Largely, 360 got good reviews. A few naysayers, which is always expected. You can’t please everyone. However, there was one reviewer that really stuck in my mind. It was a woman who went away unhappy with their brunch service. Because their and mine’s experience was, literally, night and day, I can’t rip into it saying it’s all wrong and I’m right. You always have to account for establishments having good days and bad days, truly. Its a living, breathing organism run by people who have lives and moods and sometimes shit just doesn’t work. However, there was one line that just totally slayed me in their review:

“The Farmer’s Breakfast was expensive for the stark, minimalist presentation and quality of the food*. Basic dish, I know. But it shouldnt be hard to make it taste and look appetizing”

Did you get that? Maybe if I put it in bold…

Basic dish, I know. But it shouldnt be hard to make it taste and look appetizing”

What stunned me most about this bourgeois comment is that it illustrated perfectly what most people don’t understand about cooking and cooking well: It IS hard.

Surely, not for someone who has done it their whole lives, has given every ounce of themselves to the pursuit of ever-elusive perfection, whose made a sacred promise to themselves to never let their self standards falter because you are only as good as your last plate…surely it’s not hard to make something so easy as Brunch for everyone in the restaurant at one time and not stopping because there are no such things as breaks. Surely it’s not hard to withstand your fulltime hours plus the two days off you give to another job, standing on your feet for at least 8 hours a day, sweating constantly, your knife wrist sounding like a cement mixer and the years of burns on your skin, telling your age like rings of a tree. And surely, when the server messes up the orders and leaves food sitting on the pass for millenium, rendering your work null and void and COLD, it shouldn’t be that hard. I mean, it’s just some eggs. It’s not as if tons of books have been written on the subject, or theres like 100 ways of cooking them or anything.

I must point out though, part of me felt she was right. In fact, its actually a great line if made in the right context. If you do mess up “a basic dish”, it either means you are learning, are having a shit/hungover day, or have lost your passion. The first two are forgivable offenses, the third, not so much.

Maybe this reviewer got one of those unsavoury cooks. The one that no one at work likes, whose unreliable, sloppy and full of ego; the one who no longer or ever cared, and will get fired in due time. And that sucks. Because unless we have lost our passion, cooks are there for you. We aim to please and better ourselves. Bad food makes us sad, and we work our whole lives to get rid of it.

I’m sorry that reviewer’s food sucked, but my burger was awesome. And I thanked all the rad cooks sweating like fuck that night, grilling shit to perfection while varicose veins gathered in their legs. ‘Cause goddamn-it’s not easy, and totally worth it.

________________________

*Brunch is ten dollars.

http://www.local360.org/

http://www.yelp.ca/biz/local-360-seattle-2

http://www.endlesssimmer.com/2009/04/16/100-ways-to-crack-an-egg/

How Cooking Saved My Life: Part II

Mon, 28 Nov 2011 02:25:11 -0500

I went through high school aquainted with some literature and some fuzzy, backwater skimmings about art. Most of the interesting shit I learned about came from friends who, like me, didnt like school and blew it off to go to the library in the town over. In high school I was one of the promising ones. I even graduated with honors. I might still be on the wall, framed and everything.

Sad for me, none of the boys I liked in high school were in my classes. They were all in the shop. They worked with their hands. They didn’t write 12 page papers and win academic awards. They built cool shit that WORKED. I liked them so much simultaneously because they did things with their days that, at the end, were functional in an immediate way. They were husky, gruff, messy haired and scruffy bearded. And if they didn’t get into fights, they certainly could if they wanted to.

I wanted to roll with these guys, but I felt hermetically sealed away in writing and art class. I felt like a hard rock trapped by the prissy wants and desires of academia. There was this clenching when registration came when I wanted to check off Advanced Plumbing but needed English 5 to graduate. Plus, I couldn’t use a wrench worth shit. In the end, it wasn’t working with pipes, plaster or wood that particularly appealed to me, it was the tactility of doing something real and getting in there, dirty, hard, raw: that was the real pleasure I sought.

Lucky for me, at cooking school I landed with a Chef Instructor whose own passion for food and professionalism has continued to inspire me in whatever I set my mind to. There was something comforting about starting to learn things I had no real idea about because I could be constantly wrong and that would be ok. Somehow, going into something brand new made me give myself permission to fail. There was another thing about this place: all the University jargon was gone. Dumb, long words were replaced with ones more succinct like Stock, Brunoise & Internal Temperature. Sure, I could memorize the textbook for the written exams, but after a month of theory, we were headed to the kitchen. If you are looking for a litmus test for a human being’s personality, capabilities and strengths: throw them in a kitchen and see how they deal. In a working kitchen there is no middle, coddling ground. No safe space where the D’s, C’s and B’s reside. You sink or swim. I was never afraid of failing, or making shit food because I knew I never would. I don’t mean to say that everything I made was excellent, but rather in the sense that I was never going to give up until I got it right. And I knew that was going to take years and I was alright with that. Somehow, through the years this philosophy has been applied to other things in my life, notably my artwork. When I compare my work ethics for both cooking and drawings, they are identical.

Learning a trade has empowered me. When I am in art school, I have a secret life: the cooking one. When I am cooking, I have a secret: I draw. If I am away from either one too long, I get out of wack. Its like this internal balance, a PH scale, acid and base to remain neutral…at peace. Being able to hold down a job I love while working on drawing my comics is probably the best thing I have ever managed to accomplish in my life.

If I were to give advice to anyone going to art school, I would say go to trade school first. I know not everyone is cut from the same cloth, but if you can find some interest of yours that holds the obvious potential for steady income that you moderately to totally enjoy, you are set. Not that life doesnt come with its own challenges and set backs, but learning skills outside your precious god-given arty talents will hold you in good stead. At least, it’s helped to make me think less of my artwork—and I mean that in a positive way. I can be very self-indulgent and absorbed, and having another interest that I rely on to pay the bills keeps my head at least four inches away from my ass at (almost) all times. Its like having two boyfriends: the one you connect with emotionally, and the one you connect with physically.

And I wont say which one is which :P

This book is responsible for my fall from University grace.

Mon, 28 Nov 2011 00:39:00 -0500

This book is responsible for my fall from University grace.

How Cooking Saved My Life: Part I

Mon, 28 Nov 2011 00:20:00 -0500

I owe a lot of money. Not exciting money. Boring money. School money. As of now, University’s served no immediate, practical purpose (read: a job). Yes, yes: I am socially accredited with doing some ‘right’ thing of ‘higher’ education. And of course, the way the last seven years of my life were—informing my present—are all due to the fact I was in and out of school. But as I stare down the barrel of this gun, with my first payment coming out of my bank within a few days, I cant help but realize how easy it was to ignore, or not even understand, what taking on 42,000 dollars of debt actually meant. Also, I cant help but recall all the schools I’ve gone to in search of higher meaning for myself and what has come of it.

In addition to being a dreamy, untethered temperament, I truly didn’t get how much more one signs on for when getting a student loan. High schools are so bloody eager to rush off the Grade 12’s into University, they even have an afternoon dedicated to group sign up to walk everyone through the hard steps of signing your life away (or at least they did when I was in high school; I didn’t attend). After high school graduation, I felt cautious to choose someplace that was “right”. After all, it IS the most important decision of your life!!!! This hoo-haw about how its this defining factor in your life, I have since discovered, is pure propaganda-for the institution at hand and western societal values-and kind of a misguided one too (more on that in another post, where I examine the “higher learning” VS. “trade school” war). I felt there was more. I wanted to know what it felt like to work, what it meant to live on my own, to travel, to be free. It didn’t last long, because within half a year I was beginning my journey as an undergrad. It seemed so promising and full of mystery: where the REAL learning was going to take place. I wanted to get started because making pizza for 8 bucks an hour, albeit tasty, was just not cutting it. I wanted more.

So, at 19—an age far too young to commit to anything; boyfriends and Universities a like—I went to post-secondary to study Humanities. Everything was there. The staid brick buildings. The crisp autumn leaves against the jet blue sky. A campus bustling with idealistic youth passionate about things that mattered. The wild boy bound to break my heart. However, the true breaking point had come when I had to read a ‘short’ story, perhaps by Tolstoy. I cant remember exactly save for the fact this short story was 250 pages long. Since I had left it ‘til the last minute and seminar was the following morning, I read the first paragraph and the last paragraph and crossed my fingers that I wouldn’t be called on to talk about it. Unfortunately, I was the first one the teacher asked for an opinion. It was mostly a blur. My face reddening with embarrassment that I couldn’t even take seriously what I was supposedly studying. I felt like a total fraud and a failure. Until my comments ended and my T.A looked at me and said (and Im paraphrasing here) “It seems you have grasped the essence of this story.”

I couldn’t believe it. I totally just made that up! I was spinning yarn, weaving a tapestry. I. Was. Bullshitting. The fact that it spun the class into some dialogue with jargon I found obnoxious was beyond me. I almost felt sorry for all the people who had spent the week actually reading the story. The thought barely lasted when the real crux of it appeared to me: If I can spend 15 minutes skimming a text for a University class and be commended for my insights, something is wrong. How could my Bullshit have slipped under the radar like that? I really wanted to enjoy snowing over my hardworking TA, but some voice inside me said that if I kept doing school I would become an accomplished, lying jerk-off. Despite being lauded for a deconstruction of a story, I lasted a semester and got all C’s. My insights may have been keen, but after I realized I could get it right without even trying I stopped going to class. And apparently going matters.

Where was my REAL learning? I wanted this thing, this elusive thing of being educated. I always felt-or was fed the idea-that it happens when you are in a building, in seats, with your bottle of water and cafeteria lunch, waiting for the bell to ring. Let’s focus and learn. Today. Now. But years later, I don’t even remember the lectures. I had the thirst for knowledge, but not an ounce of patience to sit around and wait for the professor to come around to his point that I would ultimately disagree with. Its in this that I ran up against the wall of doing what was right (going to school to integrate into society to bolster the economy to have children to send to school to integrate into society to bolster the economy…) and what I wanted.

I was having far too much fun drawing, drinking, running around, doing drugs, falling in love, dancing, sweating, learning to make love, crying from rejection, baking bread, riding my bike and walking in snowstorms to bother going to school anymore. It wasn’t fun. It was stuffy and interfered with my life. I wasn’t concerned with the state of the world, or the dead white guys who made up my Religious Lit. reading list. So I blew it off. But what was next? What cool thing was there to learn?

Then, when I read Tony Bourdain’s Kitchen Confidential, I knew I had no choice:

I wanted to be a cook.