As they say, one door opens when another shuts. So Door #1 has shut on the first phase of the Salvation Army culinary course. Tonight I (and 14 other students) enter Door #2, aka garde manger. From what I've heard this final (thank God) phase is supposed to be less cooking intensive and demanding that the first part of the course. I like it already. Of course, I'll give you my thoughts and ruminations on the whole shebang later.
In case you're interested, these culinary classes are held at the College of Southern Nevada (CSN) located in North Las Vegas. (All of which seems a bit geographically challenged when you think of it.) It's a smallish campus but I find it easy to get around. The atmosphere is friendly; it's the kind of campus where everyone seems to know your name, ala "Cheers". The faculty is helpful and the students are usually nice enough to help out middle-aged fellows such as your humble narrator, who don't always have the greatest sense of direction.
It's been quite a while since I was on a college campus as a student. For some reason, I don't feel completely out of place regarding the age gap between myself and the young ones. Maybe it's because the generation gap has narrowed since the 70s-80s )I'm sure there are many scholarly dissertations on this social phenomena). Or maybe it's because I'm too preoccupied by my current situation re homelessness to really give a damn. Whatever. I can you that the female student body is much more appealing at CSN than at SA. (And fairly open-minded as well. When I told one young coed about my life situation she didn't immediately sneer and flee.)
Considering that many of these girls are young enough to be my daughters -- or granddaughters, yeesh! -- sometimes I feel a bit guilty about checking out their supple, nubile bodies and their firm round ... eyes. I never really imagined myself as a dirty old man leering at young women, but I expect it was inevitable. In a way it's something of a natural progression for me. After all, I started off as a dirty young man and have been sliding down the evolutionary scale ever since. In all honesty, CSN is turning into a great place for research since I can access their library and computer rooms. (All provided by a student ID at no cost to yours truly. See, sometimes it pays to be poor!)
I thought I'd share a few odds and ends about me, my stay at SA and some of my culinary compatriots -- not necessarily in that order. As you may recall the class is composed of 15 students divided into five 3-man teams. My experience with Rain Man and Pitbull was hellish enough that I informed RM I wanted to switch teams. He, of course, replied that he had been thinking along the same lines. (This was somewhat akin to breaking up with a girl; you always want to be the first one announcing the break-up)
RM said he was cool with that. In fact he said I wanted to split from PB except no one wanted to work with the guy. (I've described PB before. For newcomers, he's short and built like a fireplug with a moody, short-tempered disposition and his opinion of black people veers slightly to the right of Hitler.) As it turns out many students want to switch teams. We're scheduled to have a meeting with the caseworkers in which it's expected that names be drawn out of a hat. I'm hoping that PB's two teammates are black.
The Enigma That Is Rain Man
He's a big guy standing app. 6'3 and built like a linebacker (albeit with a paunch). RM is a mathematical wizard, supposedly pegged as a child prodigy -- I actually can believe it. I call him Rain Man because he is so adept at spinning numbers in his head. It may be why he's such an accomplished cook as well. As I've found out to my everlasting misery, cooking incurs a lot of mathematical formula. (By now, you certainly know how I feel about math so I won't belabor the point.) At any rate you can tell the guy has some education (from his vocabulary) and some smarts. In fact you'd have to say he has a lot of potential for success, having managed restaurants like the Olive Garden and several other establishments.
So I ask you: Does this sound like a guy who just came off a 7-year bid in prison for armed robbery and is now on parole? Does this fit the profile of a guy who has been banned from entering two states of the Union? Does this fit the image of a man who has spent most of his adult life behind bars? Guess what? In this case all of the above does apply. RM, as they say, has been into some heavy s**t in his lifetime. Despite his facility with numbers and his cooking acumen, he's considered a hard core felon (some of his mug shots are online. Apparently he has no problem about this as he directed me to the websites.)
While we share a mutual respect for each other (probably because we're among the handful of SA clients who can speak in words of 2+ syllables), the guy does scare me. First, there's his intimidating height and size. Then there's his manner; usually quiet but he has a propensity for telling dirty jokes and using a lot of profanity (this is an infraction that can incur a write-up if overheard by the wrong set of ears.) I think his demeanor can be too quiet, almost dispassionate at times. Like a calculator, he can come off as cold and efficient.
Sometimes I feel like I'm talking to a machine that's making an effort to seem human. he makes the right gestures and responses, but something isn't quite ... right. It's as though he's composed of wires and circuits more than flesh and blood. But I've seen evidence of very human anger flash across his face, and something tells me when he flies into a rage it doesn't end until somebody is crippled or worse. He doesn't seem like the type to back down from a fight.
I've often found it interesting that intelligence doesn't preclude the propensity for making stupid decisions. After all, many criminals -- including serial killers -- are considered above average in intellect. You would think RM could have easily walked the straight and narrow and found a legit career instead of turning to crime; started a family instead of enduring two busted marriages (he's attempting to track down the second wife); would have followed the example set forth by his family, who are apparently successful and well-to-do (and law-abiding). Obviously, RM was motivated by other, darker forces.
One last reason why I stay friendly with RM but still keep a respectable distance: He was talking about some of his prison experiences when he stopped and looked at me. After a few moments of uncomfortable silence, he said, "You know something? You wouldn't've lasted five minutes in the prison I was at." Like I would want to?
From his very detailed approach to things you could call him a control freak, trying to anticipate every possible contingency. When things go wrong, he doesn't take criticism very well and becomes stone silent. His face is not a pretty sight. Still, he is the undeniable star of the culinary class. It'll be interesting to see how he fares when it's time to seek work.
Time is winding down, so let me just say that in my time at SA I've totally lost track of the TV shows I once followed. Chuck and Nikita were two of my favorites. And I'd often watch the Oscars. Do you I had no idea the Academy Awards were shown last night? Didn't even know it until this morning. And you know something? I don't feel like I missed much,
For now, that's a wrap!
Quote of the Day:
"I bet if I brought a cow into (this classroom) and slit its throat, there'd be a lot of vegetarians tomorrow." -- Chef X
Monday, February 27, 2012
Friday, February 24, 2012
HINJFCA Part XXI: Days Of Our Knives
Well friends, it's over. I did my best and that was all I could do; my fate now rests in the laps of the gods. Hopefully they're not getting a celestial lapdance as I await the outcome of my efforts.
Of course I'm talking about my final exam for the culinary course I've been taking. It was a 2-part exam with the practical (cooking) portion a couple of days ago and the written part yesterday. How did I do? Still won't know for sure until next week, but I'm not optimistic about my chances. I guess I didn't do myself any favors when I didn't study for the damn thing. Yes, I actually do have an excuse -- I was overly tired from an excessive schedule of work and school -- but that doesn't change the fact that I likely screwed up.
There is some good news, believe it or not. The written exam accounts for only 30% of our grade. As it stands, I hear that everyone but two students had A's (don't know who they are, maybe it's me) before the final. The chef is evidently a lenient grader and the curve must be off the charts. Whatever, I'll take it. But I wonder how the best students feel knowing that even the underachievers will get passing grades? Kind makes me think about that parable in the Bible about the merchant and his prodigal son.
Friends, there are times when things become so fouled up they can only be referred to as a clusterf**k. That is the term I would use to define my experience thus far with the culinary class. It's not a bad course; it's simply a round hole and I'm a square peg. As I told Chef X upon turning in the written final: "I've learned a valuable lesson from your class. I'm much better at eating food than I am at cooking it."
Note that while he chuckled at my comment, he didn't disagree with me. At least I didn't utter a sappy "thank you-I've learned-so-much" line as did most of my classmates. I'd like to think Chef X will remember me as a laconic realist; or at least a disgruntled loner. Sometimes I think they're quite similar, really.
And as we close the cookbook on Chef X, Monday we begin a new chapter with the garde manger phase of the culinary course. How that will progress is anyone's guess. But rest assured your humble narrator will be here to chronicle all his food-centric experiences with alacrity and enthusiasm (depending upon how much Red Bull I've guzzled on a given day).
In the meantime, let me give you a few quick hits re other stuff going on at the Salvation Army Vocational Center:
I spoke with my caseworker recently about whether or not I must get a job as a cook upon graduating from this course. The official line is, yes; the job must involve cooking. Unofficially I'm told the graduate my get a job in a "food and beverage establishment." I expect I'll go the unofficial route. I'll also likely hedge my bets and look for a gig outside the culinary field. Who knows, I might work two jobs just to build up savings all the more quickly.
Some new women moved into the building recently, apparently still in their prison blues. Really, this place is like a halfway house. Some of the prison/street behavior has gotten so out of hand as to attract the notice of higher-ups around the campus. This is evidenced by the behavior of M. who is a large black woman, 35ish and on parole.
It's not uncommon to hear her shouting profanities at the top of her lungs while she works alongside us in the kitchen. She's often saying these things in a joking manner, but it's still jarring to her things like, "Boy if anyone try to steal my money I'll knock the f**k out the motherf**ker!" This comment she blurted out of the blue when no mention was made by anyone about stealing money -- hers or anyone else's.
She's gotten into arguments with customers about "ain't no special orders, sir. Why don't you take your skinny little ass to Mickey D's before I slap the piss outta you!" And talking about her busted relationships: "I got five kids with four different men. They all some deadbeat n***as. Broke-ass motherf***ers won't do a goddam thing to help me. I am so tired of these dead-ass n***as, I will never f**k another!"
I overheard a supervisor telling her she had to tone it down. When she looked confused, the supervisor explained there were complaints about her profanity, and that she had to ease up on the "street s**t. You ain't on the street now and you ain't behind bars. People out here don't understand that s**t. It won't fly out here."
Her response? "Who did the complaining?" The supervisor said, "It-doesn't-matter. It could've been anyone. Just tone it down." He mentioned that he had a couple of other people to talk to as well. Not surprisingly, all of those he mentioned are here on parole. It's odd, but it seems like a lot of these parolees here seem to believe they're entitled to bring their prison-centric behaviors and attitudes into society regardless of how offensive they might seem to others.
(Note that I'm picking up writing this blog after several hours due to a server malfunction. Pardon me if there are any lapses in syntax or any other terminologies I don't completely understand. Then again, that might be par for the course.)
all too often -- it seems to me -- society tends to tolerate certain, shall we say, faux pas from one segment of the population that would be deemed inappropriate if committed by another segment of the population. A case in point might be the use of the n-word. (Btw if you can make any sense of the preceding drivel, please drop me a line an explain it to me.)
Some might argue this has something to do with the 'liberal agenda' or somesuch. All I can say is that insofar as such an agenda wants to level the playing field to make things "fair" for everyone, I'm all for it. So long as it suits my objectives, of course. A case in point would be the generous grading curve afforded us by Chef X.
Then again, maybe it has more to do with we students being associated with the Salvation Army; maybe there's a different grading system for us. A system that takes into account our hardships and travails and whatnot. Maybe the powers that be figured, "Hey these SA folks have it tough enough without getting a D or F on their transcript. Give 'em a break and pass 'em all!" Yeah ... and maybe monkeys might fly out of my butt.
So with that visual, I'll leave you to enjoy he rest of your day/night/whenever you're reading this thing. More fun stuff coming up ... Not here of course, but somewhere -- look for it!
Quote of the day:
"I'd never eat in a restaurant that would hire me as a cook."
-- Your Humble Narrator
Of course I'm talking about my final exam for the culinary course I've been taking. It was a 2-part exam with the practical (cooking) portion a couple of days ago and the written part yesterday. How did I do? Still won't know for sure until next week, but I'm not optimistic about my chances. I guess I didn't do myself any favors when I didn't study for the damn thing. Yes, I actually do have an excuse -- I was overly tired from an excessive schedule of work and school -- but that doesn't change the fact that I likely screwed up.
There is some good news, believe it or not. The written exam accounts for only 30% of our grade. As it stands, I hear that everyone but two students had A's (don't know who they are, maybe it's me) before the final. The chef is evidently a lenient grader and the curve must be off the charts. Whatever, I'll take it. But I wonder how the best students feel knowing that even the underachievers will get passing grades? Kind makes me think about that parable in the Bible about the merchant and his prodigal son.
Friends, there are times when things become so fouled up they can only be referred to as a clusterf**k. That is the term I would use to define my experience thus far with the culinary class. It's not a bad course; it's simply a round hole and I'm a square peg. As I told Chef X upon turning in the written final: "I've learned a valuable lesson from your class. I'm much better at eating food than I am at cooking it."
Note that while he chuckled at my comment, he didn't disagree with me. At least I didn't utter a sappy "thank you-I've learned-so-much" line as did most of my classmates. I'd like to think Chef X will remember me as a laconic realist; or at least a disgruntled loner. Sometimes I think they're quite similar, really.
And as we close the cookbook on Chef X, Monday we begin a new chapter with the garde manger phase of the culinary course. How that will progress is anyone's guess. But rest assured your humble narrator will be here to chronicle all his food-centric experiences with alacrity and enthusiasm (depending upon how much Red Bull I've guzzled on a given day).
In the meantime, let me give you a few quick hits re other stuff going on at the Salvation Army Vocational Center:
I spoke with my caseworker recently about whether or not I must get a job as a cook upon graduating from this course. The official line is, yes; the job must involve cooking. Unofficially I'm told the graduate my get a job in a "food and beverage establishment." I expect I'll go the unofficial route. I'll also likely hedge my bets and look for a gig outside the culinary field. Who knows, I might work two jobs just to build up savings all the more quickly.
Some new women moved into the building recently, apparently still in their prison blues. Really, this place is like a halfway house. Some of the prison/street behavior has gotten so out of hand as to attract the notice of higher-ups around the campus. This is evidenced by the behavior of M. who is a large black woman, 35ish and on parole.
It's not uncommon to hear her shouting profanities at the top of her lungs while she works alongside us in the kitchen. She's often saying these things in a joking manner, but it's still jarring to her things like, "Boy if anyone try to steal my money I'll knock the f**k out the motherf**ker!" This comment she blurted out of the blue when no mention was made by anyone about stealing money -- hers or anyone else's.
She's gotten into arguments with customers about "ain't no special orders, sir. Why don't you take your skinny little ass to Mickey D's before I slap the piss outta you!" And talking about her busted relationships: "I got five kids with four different men. They all some deadbeat n***as. Broke-ass motherf***ers won't do a goddam thing to help me. I am so tired of these dead-ass n***as, I will never f**k another!"
I overheard a supervisor telling her she had to tone it down. When she looked confused, the supervisor explained there were complaints about her profanity, and that she had to ease up on the "street s**t. You ain't on the street now and you ain't behind bars. People out here don't understand that s**t. It won't fly out here."
Her response? "Who did the complaining?" The supervisor said, "It-doesn't-matter. It could've been anyone. Just tone it down." He mentioned that he had a couple of other people to talk to as well. Not surprisingly, all of those he mentioned are here on parole. It's odd, but it seems like a lot of these parolees here seem to believe they're entitled to bring their prison-centric behaviors and attitudes into society regardless of how offensive they might seem to others.
(Note that I'm picking up writing this blog after several hours due to a server malfunction. Pardon me if there are any lapses in syntax or any other terminologies I don't completely understand. Then again, that might be par for the course.)
all too often -- it seems to me -- society tends to tolerate certain, shall we say, faux pas from one segment of the population that would be deemed inappropriate if committed by another segment of the population. A case in point might be the use of the n-word. (Btw if you can make any sense of the preceding drivel, please drop me a line an explain it to me.)
Some might argue this has something to do with the 'liberal agenda' or somesuch. All I can say is that insofar as such an agenda wants to level the playing field to make things "fair" for everyone, I'm all for it. So long as it suits my objectives, of course. A case in point would be the generous grading curve afforded us by Chef X.
Then again, maybe it has more to do with we students being associated with the Salvation Army; maybe there's a different grading system for us. A system that takes into account our hardships and travails and whatnot. Maybe the powers that be figured, "Hey these SA folks have it tough enough without getting a D or F on their transcript. Give 'em a break and pass 'em all!" Yeah ... and maybe monkeys might fly out of my butt.
So with that visual, I'll leave you to enjoy he rest of your day/night/whenever you're reading this thing. More fun stuff coming up ... Not here of course, but somewhere -- look for it!
Quote of the day:
"I'd never eat in a restaurant that would hire me as a cook."
-- Your Humble Narrator
Tuesday, February 21, 2012
HINJFCA Part XX: Stick A Fork In It
First, allow me to apologize for not
maintaining a regular update for this blog; I know how that must
upset all my readers (both of them). But you must realize that your
humble narrator has been quite busy of late, what with all the
schoolwork and full time work sked keeping me more occupied than I
imagined (or desired).
This really will have to be a brief
post because in a mere 90 minutes I go to face my destiny. I go to
look the into the abyss eyeball to eyeball. That's right: I'm headed
to school for part one of a two-part final exam. What is the general
feeling of the students as we careen toward this penultimate showdown
with destiny? Let me sum it up with a quote from my roommate and
fellw student: “Life's pretty much over for me, man.”
Well, after surviving a mental
breakdown and a bout of nearly losing myself to the mean streets of
Sin City, my outlook is not that dire; not quite, anyway. If I fail
this thing, it won't be the end of the world so much as a challenge:
That being, how will I rectify the epic f**k-up that I've created?
As I've mentioned before, taking this
cooking class has confirmed for me the fact that I hate cooking.
There, I said it again. Thankfully, I've discovered that I am not
the only one who feels that way. So I feel a bit less like a loner
in that regard. I have also discovered that I'm not the only one
dissatisfied with his team members.
Working with Rain Man & Pitbull
turned into a nightmare. They both have an aptitude for this stuff
and enjoy it. Honestly, they're very good cooks. When they saw how
bad I was, they decided amongst themselves to do ALL the work,
including mine. I essentially turned in and was graded for work I
didn't do. The upshot is that I didn't actually learn to do the
work for myself. And that's what will likely sink me in this part of
the final, which involves preparing several recipes.
Somewhere along the way my teammates
decided this was a competition, not a group effort where everyone was
supposed to support everyone else. I'm not crying about it because I
should have said something before. But it was kind of cool to have
other people do my work for me. Well, I've learned a valuable After
School Lesson, haven't I?
I really wanted this class for the
college credit, not to be a cook. There's still the written exam
tomorrow where I can make up some lost ground. And the second part
of the program (garde manger) sounds more interesting than the misery
I've been dredging myself through. As if that's not enough to
buoy my spirits, how about this (a true story):
A few years ago, a Latina
took the same courses I'm taking. However, she spoke little to no
English. She apparently mucked up the cooking final. And for the
written final she answered every question with 'Radish'. That's
right. And she got her certificate of completion. (Not sure about
the college credit, but I wouldn't be surprised if she received that
as well.)
I'll share my miseries and/or triumphs
with you later. For now, that's a wrap!
(Btw, I'm typing this on a netbook a
dedicated reader sent me. I'm still learning how to use it, so do
forgive any typos, etc.)
Quote of the Day:
“I've never known anyone that died
and lived to talk about it.”
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
HINJFCA Part 19: Tales of Entrails & Full Moon Fever (w/Video)
It's Valentine's Day, so your humble narrator wishes you and yours the best V.D. ever shared with a loved one! That out of the way, let me quickly recount my epic experiences from last night's culinary class. We continued our evisceration of dead sea creatures and their attendant carcasses (or is the plural carcassi?) and even performed a live execution upon 2 innocent lobsters. Then again, how can anything with claws that big be "innocent?"
We started off with demonstration on how to shuck oysters and clams. Prying open the shells of these varmints is tougher than it looks; they literally clam up as you try to invade their space. The tightness is so pronounced that it provoked several untoward sexual comments from guys and gals alike (none of which I'll share with your delicate eyeballs; your minds are dirty enough to come up with your own double entendre anyway).
And the reward for all that effort? Well, oysters provide you with a half shell full of what appears to be a huge glob of snot. And of course people pay high prices for the privilege of swallowing that crap after dousing it with Tabasco sauce or lemon sauce or whatever. Cover it with hot fudge and whipped cream, and it still looks like some guy hawked a loogie in a shell. But that's me. Maybe I just don't give a shuck. Rain Man actually did swallow that raw oyster and said it had a slightly metallic aftertaste. Yum. The clams presented the same difficulty in opening their shells but for some reason these disgusting little globules of sea life are not consumed raw. Go figure.
We also learned how to prepare shrimp and squid. Shrimp is fairly easy to clean. Until you have to extract the intestinal vein. That is, you have to clean out the creature's poop, which comes out in a long, thin line. Doesn't that whet your appetite?
I just had to ask our instructor, Chef X, if shrimp sh*t wasn't considered a delicacy by some demented gourmands. He had no comment, so I take that for a 'yes'. And if it isn't it should be. For some reason, some of the world's delicacies also happen to be some of the most repulsive foodstuffs I can imagine. Fish eggs, frog legs, escargot, ousters, liver, kidney, and so on ... It's amazing that people will pay big money to eat this crap. Hey, any bids on a recipe for fresh, steaming squirrel vomit?
(I mentioned we also cleaned and dressed squid but I decided to bail on that assignment.) Then it was on to the evening's main event: Live execution of 2 lobsters. Chef X informed us that the most humane way to kill the creature was to stab it quickly in the head, then slice it down then middle -- which he proceeded to do with frightening precision. As the lobster's legs twitched from nervous reaction, to turned it over and cleaved the animal in twain, lengthwise, obliterating its protective armor with meaty crunching noises.
Then he split the creature into two halves and provided us with a cutaway view of the internal viscera. Really, it seems that being a chef is as much about being a coroner as a cook. He scooped out globs of green and yellow organs, some of which were -- you guessed it -- considered delicacies. There was a thick, mustard-like substance that Chef X couldn't identify. He said it resembled sperm, but these lobsters were female. I conjectured she either had a late night tryst or was a hermaphrodite. Seemed reasonable to me. But as usual, I was ignored.
(Doesn't it seem odd that so many sea creatures seem to have an insectoid appearance? Lobsters in particular seem like overgrown cockroaches, which is one reason I can't imagine eating one. Seeing a lobster makes me want to grab a giant-size can of raid and spray it to death. Shrimp, squid, crabs all look like they could be distant cousins of our common household pests. Actually, my third wife used to refer to me as a household pest but that's another blog.)
All these dismembered species of the sea were eventually hacked, boiled, cooked, stir-fried, and formatted by the class for consumption. Alas, I cannot divulge details on this because your humble narrator was taken ill. No, not by the sight of mutilated animals. Rather, I was apparently bitten by a flu bug of sorts which, shall we say, kept me running. I informed Chef X as to my condition and he advised that I should stay out of the kitchen to avoid infecting the food.
Actually, that is common practice among food handlers: At first sign of potential diarrhea or vomiting, a worker is sent home or told not to report for work. Now, some might find it odd that I was so stricken on a night in which I had absolutely no interest in the subject matter. Some might think, 'Hm, that's awfully convenient, isn't it?' But I tell you, o my readers, that I speak the truth. I honestly forgot I would be forbidden from completing the night's assignment due to such an illness.
Frankly, the notion that I couldn't stay in the kitchen never entered my mind. I spent a few hours wandering around the campus and eventually joined the rest of my classmates for the trip back to the Salvation Army shelter. Oddly enough, I had no further intestinal discomfort.
There have been some other issues swirling in my brain, but I'll save that for a future column. Suffice to say that you might not guess one of the things I miss most about having lost my domicile. Was it the privacy? Not necessarily. The freedom? More or less. No, what I really miss is playing with my XBOX and Playstation 2. Those were the days ...
Now before I get all weepy and misty-eyed, I promised to tell you about some of the full moon fever that hit the SA populace recently. It seemed to start last week during out culinary class when some teammates had a falling out about tasting food made with alcohol. Several of my classmates are in alcohol recovery programs, so they can't eat food made with booze. One girl took exception, and that instigated a loud argument between her and a male colleague who called her a "fat bitch" then seemed to take some menacing steps toward her while growling, "Step off". Which prompted Chef X to intervene and admonish them for bad form, since another class was gawking at us.
That wasn't all. My roommate B. who has a dry sense of humor at best called his teammate (a dotty 60 year old woman) "a freak", whereupon she started caterwauling about calling the cops on him. (She showed up in the kitchen the following morning to confront him saying "This isn't over!" to the amusement of those assembled) B, also incurred the wrath of my teammate Rain Man when he commented that anyone could take our equipment because "These p***y fa***ts won't do s**t about it!" B. said he meant it as a joke but when he tried to apologize to RM he was blown off with a gruff "F**k your apology!"
As if wars on two fronts weren't enough, B got into it with a large black woman (AJ) on the van ride home. AJ was outspoken enough, shouting that she was going to "kick y'alls asses"; not sure exactly what set her off, but she was off and running. B happened to bump her as he moved to the rear of the van and she shouted, "You don't stop that, I'm gonna bitch-slap your ass." He told her to shut up and she replied, "Boy, I'd be afraid of you if I though you could beat a man. You couldn't beat this woman, I'd knock your ass down."
And B said with a grin, "I would smash your f**kin' face in. I would beat the living s**t out of you, AJ." She shouted, you hear how this motherf***er is talkin' to me? Bitch, you better stop before you get a beat down." Things seemed to quiet down when someone either kicked her seat or started throwing things at her repeatedly. "All right, whoever doin' better chill or I'm gonna slap all y'asses!" The warning didn't take and she yelled, "I done told you to stop it! Or else you gonna find out real quick how this lady can fight like a goddam straight-up motherf**kin' n***a!" Say what you like, she does have a way with words, no?
(Later in our room, B vented on his true feelings toward AJ and black people in general. Let's just say he won't be voted the NAACP Man of the Year anytime soon.)
All this activity resulted in a flurry of emailings about the incident from the Chef to the SA caseworkers (the arguments in the van were reported by the driver). The upshot was a mandatory meeting in which all classmates were scolded for our behavior. It was a hand slap, really, delivered by JF our EES instructor who must have seen "Stand and Deliver" one time too many. He said that those who caused the disturbance should be ashamed of themselves. And so should the people who "stood in the weeds and let it happen." Let it happen?
I thought it was gutless to lump everybody in with the troublemakers including your humble narrator, who has dome nothing but follow the rules from day one. It's like certain caseworkers who tell you, 'If you see a crack pipe in your brother's hand it's your responsibility to take it away'. Right. And what happens when your brother sticks a knife between your ribs? If I got involved with the dispute(s) of others, don't I effectively become a source of disturbance? Sometimes makes you wonder why you try at all.
I see my time is winding down and I have to prepare for yet another challenge in culinary class. Fear not brothers and sisters, the end is in sight with only the final exam looming. Yes, the journey can be painful but sometimes it's best to follow the teaches of Peaches. Click here and she'll tell you how to deal with the pain. For now, that's a wrap!
Quote of the Day:
"How do you deal with overpopulation? Start a war every now and then, drop a few big nukes and wipe out a few hundred million people. Problem solved." -- Chef X
We started off with demonstration on how to shuck oysters and clams. Prying open the shells of these varmints is tougher than it looks; they literally clam up as you try to invade their space. The tightness is so pronounced that it provoked several untoward sexual comments from guys and gals alike (none of which I'll share with your delicate eyeballs; your minds are dirty enough to come up with your own double entendre anyway).
And the reward for all that effort? Well, oysters provide you with a half shell full of what appears to be a huge glob of snot. And of course people pay high prices for the privilege of swallowing that crap after dousing it with Tabasco sauce or lemon sauce or whatever. Cover it with hot fudge and whipped cream, and it still looks like some guy hawked a loogie in a shell. But that's me. Maybe I just don't give a shuck. Rain Man actually did swallow that raw oyster and said it had a slightly metallic aftertaste. Yum. The clams presented the same difficulty in opening their shells but for some reason these disgusting little globules of sea life are not consumed raw. Go figure.
We also learned how to prepare shrimp and squid. Shrimp is fairly easy to clean. Until you have to extract the intestinal vein. That is, you have to clean out the creature's poop, which comes out in a long, thin line. Doesn't that whet your appetite?
I just had to ask our instructor, Chef X, if shrimp sh*t wasn't considered a delicacy by some demented gourmands. He had no comment, so I take that for a 'yes'. And if it isn't it should be. For some reason, some of the world's delicacies also happen to be some of the most repulsive foodstuffs I can imagine. Fish eggs, frog legs, escargot, ousters, liver, kidney, and so on ... It's amazing that people will pay big money to eat this crap. Hey, any bids on a recipe for fresh, steaming squirrel vomit?
(I mentioned we also cleaned and dressed squid but I decided to bail on that assignment.) Then it was on to the evening's main event: Live execution of 2 lobsters. Chef X informed us that the most humane way to kill the creature was to stab it quickly in the head, then slice it down then middle -- which he proceeded to do with frightening precision. As the lobster's legs twitched from nervous reaction, to turned it over and cleaved the animal in twain, lengthwise, obliterating its protective armor with meaty crunching noises.
Then he split the creature into two halves and provided us with a cutaway view of the internal viscera. Really, it seems that being a chef is as much about being a coroner as a cook. He scooped out globs of green and yellow organs, some of which were -- you guessed it -- considered delicacies. There was a thick, mustard-like substance that Chef X couldn't identify. He said it resembled sperm, but these lobsters were female. I conjectured she either had a late night tryst or was a hermaphrodite. Seemed reasonable to me. But as usual, I was ignored.
(Doesn't it seem odd that so many sea creatures seem to have an insectoid appearance? Lobsters in particular seem like overgrown cockroaches, which is one reason I can't imagine eating one. Seeing a lobster makes me want to grab a giant-size can of raid and spray it to death. Shrimp, squid, crabs all look like they could be distant cousins of our common household pests. Actually, my third wife used to refer to me as a household pest but that's another blog.)
All these dismembered species of the sea were eventually hacked, boiled, cooked, stir-fried, and formatted by the class for consumption. Alas, I cannot divulge details on this because your humble narrator was taken ill. No, not by the sight of mutilated animals. Rather, I was apparently bitten by a flu bug of sorts which, shall we say, kept me running. I informed Chef X as to my condition and he advised that I should stay out of the kitchen to avoid infecting the food.
Actually, that is common practice among food handlers: At first sign of potential diarrhea or vomiting, a worker is sent home or told not to report for work. Now, some might find it odd that I was so stricken on a night in which I had absolutely no interest in the subject matter. Some might think, 'Hm, that's awfully convenient, isn't it?' But I tell you, o my readers, that I speak the truth. I honestly forgot I would be forbidden from completing the night's assignment due to such an illness.
Frankly, the notion that I couldn't stay in the kitchen never entered my mind. I spent a few hours wandering around the campus and eventually joined the rest of my classmates for the trip back to the Salvation Army shelter. Oddly enough, I had no further intestinal discomfort.
There have been some other issues swirling in my brain, but I'll save that for a future column. Suffice to say that you might not guess one of the things I miss most about having lost my domicile. Was it the privacy? Not necessarily. The freedom? More or less. No, what I really miss is playing with my XBOX and Playstation 2. Those were the days ...
Now before I get all weepy and misty-eyed, I promised to tell you about some of the full moon fever that hit the SA populace recently. It seemed to start last week during out culinary class when some teammates had a falling out about tasting food made with alcohol. Several of my classmates are in alcohol recovery programs, so they can't eat food made with booze. One girl took exception, and that instigated a loud argument between her and a male colleague who called her a "fat bitch" then seemed to take some menacing steps toward her while growling, "Step off". Which prompted Chef X to intervene and admonish them for bad form, since another class was gawking at us.
That wasn't all. My roommate B. who has a dry sense of humor at best called his teammate (a dotty 60 year old woman) "a freak", whereupon she started caterwauling about calling the cops on him. (She showed up in the kitchen the following morning to confront him saying "This isn't over!" to the amusement of those assembled) B, also incurred the wrath of my teammate Rain Man when he commented that anyone could take our equipment because "These p***y fa***ts won't do s**t about it!" B. said he meant it as a joke but when he tried to apologize to RM he was blown off with a gruff "F**k your apology!"
As if wars on two fronts weren't enough, B got into it with a large black woman (AJ) on the van ride home. AJ was outspoken enough, shouting that she was going to "kick y'alls asses"; not sure exactly what set her off, but she was off and running. B happened to bump her as he moved to the rear of the van and she shouted, "You don't stop that, I'm gonna bitch-slap your ass." He told her to shut up and she replied, "Boy, I'd be afraid of you if I though you could beat a man. You couldn't beat this woman, I'd knock your ass down."
And B said with a grin, "I would smash your f**kin' face in. I would beat the living s**t out of you, AJ." She shouted, you hear how this motherf***er is talkin' to me? Bitch, you better stop before you get a beat down." Things seemed to quiet down when someone either kicked her seat or started throwing things at her repeatedly. "All right, whoever doin' better chill or I'm gonna slap all y'asses!" The warning didn't take and she yelled, "I done told you to stop it! Or else you gonna find out real quick how this lady can fight like a goddam straight-up motherf**kin' n***a!" Say what you like, she does have a way with words, no?
(Later in our room, B vented on his true feelings toward AJ and black people in general. Let's just say he won't be voted the NAACP Man of the Year anytime soon.)
All this activity resulted in a flurry of emailings about the incident from the Chef to the SA caseworkers (the arguments in the van were reported by the driver). The upshot was a mandatory meeting in which all classmates were scolded for our behavior. It was a hand slap, really, delivered by JF our EES instructor who must have seen "Stand and Deliver" one time too many. He said that those who caused the disturbance should be ashamed of themselves. And so should the people who "stood in the weeds and let it happen." Let it happen?
I thought it was gutless to lump everybody in with the troublemakers including your humble narrator, who has dome nothing but follow the rules from day one. It's like certain caseworkers who tell you, 'If you see a crack pipe in your brother's hand it's your responsibility to take it away'. Right. And what happens when your brother sticks a knife between your ribs? If I got involved with the dispute(s) of others, don't I effectively become a source of disturbance? Sometimes makes you wonder why you try at all.
I see my time is winding down and I have to prepare for yet another challenge in culinary class. Fear not brothers and sisters, the end is in sight with only the final exam looming. Yes, the journey can be painful but sometimes it's best to follow the teaches of Peaches. Click here and she'll tell you how to deal with the pain. For now, that's a wrap!
Quote of the Day:
"How do you deal with overpopulation? Start a war every now and then, drop a few big nukes and wipe out a few hundred million people. Problem solved." -- Chef X
Monday, February 13, 2012
HINJFCA Part 18: Cutting (and Gutting) Comments
Oops! I notice it's been a while since I last posted (I thought about have adding "anything of note", but that claim might be debatable"). At any rate, fear not; your humble narrator is still alive and kicking. Still fighting the good fight against homelessness and struggling to regain his honored place in society. And still marveling at how little human nature changes even when confronted with the most dire of circumstances.
Let me start by telling you that there's been a full moon over Vegas recently, and that may have led to a spate of uncivilized behavior that has suddenly swept across the Salvation Army campus where I reside. We'll get to that shortly. In the last week or so, I've gotten my official Nevada Health Card. The process for doing this is extremely complex and harrowing: You have to go watch a 15 year old video (transferred from VHS) with a group of other aspirants. Here, you learn all about the dos and don'ts of handling food carefully and all sorts of arcane info about maintaining a sanitary work environment (wash your hands after going to the bathroom, for instance. Who'da thunk it?)
The video lasts about 50 minutes. But that's not all; you also have to complete a quiz that goes along with watching the video. How tough is the quiz? So tough that even when the presenter gave us the answers along the way, some people still couldn't get them right! Your narrator nearly screwed the pooch because of attractive 20-something sat next to be and kept distracting me with her amazingly tones legs and seductive perfume. Sheesh, I have cavities older than her. Anyway, the presentation ended I had to get a shot for Hep B (was an honest to God old-fashioned needle; I didn't wail too loudly -- kinda). With the quiz passed, yours truly was presented with his very own official health card. Complete with photo that makes me look like I'm pleasantly buzzed on near beer.
I have also been attending culinary school classes at night along with 14 other SA participants. As I've said, I enjoy eating food more than cooking it. Recently, I had the pleasure of filleting a couple of fish. Apart from the offensive smell, I found it repulsive to cut open fish flesh (and nicking my fingers on scales and bones (bet the fish was laughing in fish heaven) and handle deep sea guts and viscera. It was especially distressing since it was a female fish and I had to extract the ovaries. Then again, that's as close as I've been to female ovaries (of any species) in quite a while. Maybe I should brag about it.
Frankly, I think it's all a waste of time, and have even less respect for the "sport" of fishing than I had before. Who the hell wants to clean these things? Why do people want to eat food that has eyes, for God's sake? I don't know about you, but I don't want my food watching me while I eviscerate it, let alone eat the damn thing. I got through the nonsense surprisingly calm, even joking about it ("Tonight this fish sleeps with the fishes"). Maybe I just didn't give a fudge. Others, like the guy next to me, were venting their frustrations by shouting, "Man, this a goddam nightmare! I don't believe this sh*t!"). Others complained that the sight of fish innards was making them ill. There merely verbalized what i was thinking the whole time.
Of my teammates, only Pitbull really had the hang of cutting and gutting fish; maybe he's the Gorton's Fisherman. Even Rain Man had problems with this assignment; you could tell he wasn't used to having difficulty with preparing food, so I imagine he was a bit put out by the experience. As for me, I pretty much butchered the assignment -- literally. I was told this when I asked Chef X for help. I merely responded, "Yeah I know it's all f**ked up. Just show me what to do so I can get through this thing." He graciously demonstrated the fine art of filleting out of concern for time constraints more than concern for my actually understanding what the hell I was doing.
Which is fine by me. At this point I merely wish to get the whole sad, sorry business over with. The good news is that we're more than halfway through this course. The bad news is that there's another 5-week course to follow in garde manger. And oh yeah -- we get to cut up a chicken tonight. Guess who can't hardly wait.
One nice byproduct of the classes, however (yeah I do actually have something complementary to say about the experience) is that the students get to eat their own cooking. Actually, I think Chef X looks forward to this more than we do. Over the last two classes, we've enjoyed various beef dishes and fish entrees like Sole Vin Blanc or some Frenchy sounding name. Whatever, it was made with white wine, so it must be good. I say this because I didn't try any of it even though my team made it. I don't generally eat fish. I did try the battered fish (ala Long John Silver's) and it was pretty good.
Frankly, from my experience thus far about reading of beef cuts and filleting fishes I'm finding it ever more difficult to eat the flesh of these animals. When they talk about cutting here and taking out veins and whatnot, it sounds like we're training to be morticians, chefs. And when they talk about preparing internal organs like hearts, kidney, sweetbreads (thymus) or tongue, forget it. By then I'm halfway to the nearest toilet to pray to the porcelain god. I may well come out of this a vegetarian!
And so I'll conclude this episode of my blog -- for now. Why so short an entry? Well, judging from some of the feedback I've received, some of you think I get a bit long-winded at times. In an effort to appease my readers (both of them) I've decided to shorten some of this purple prose and hopefully make it more pleasing to the eyeballs (of which I could use more, so do spread the word). And no, I didn't forget about the wild behavior that's been going on about the SA campus. But that's what we in the entertainment biz call a "cliffhanger". In the meantime, check out one of my favorite graphic novels, soon to be a major motion picture.
Quote of the day:
"People do some strange things for a little bit of change!"
Let me start by telling you that there's been a full moon over Vegas recently, and that may have led to a spate of uncivilized behavior that has suddenly swept across the Salvation Army campus where I reside. We'll get to that shortly. In the last week or so, I've gotten my official Nevada Health Card. The process for doing this is extremely complex and harrowing: You have to go watch a 15 year old video (transferred from VHS) with a group of other aspirants. Here, you learn all about the dos and don'ts of handling food carefully and all sorts of arcane info about maintaining a sanitary work environment (wash your hands after going to the bathroom, for instance. Who'da thunk it?)
The video lasts about 50 minutes. But that's not all; you also have to complete a quiz that goes along with watching the video. How tough is the quiz? So tough that even when the presenter gave us the answers along the way, some people still couldn't get them right! Your narrator nearly screwed the pooch because of attractive 20-something sat next to be and kept distracting me with her amazingly tones legs and seductive perfume. Sheesh, I have cavities older than her. Anyway, the presentation ended I had to get a shot for Hep B (was an honest to God old-fashioned needle; I didn't wail too loudly -- kinda). With the quiz passed, yours truly was presented with his very own official health card. Complete with photo that makes me look like I'm pleasantly buzzed on near beer.
I have also been attending culinary school classes at night along with 14 other SA participants. As I've said, I enjoy eating food more than cooking it. Recently, I had the pleasure of filleting a couple of fish. Apart from the offensive smell, I found it repulsive to cut open fish flesh (and nicking my fingers on scales and bones (bet the fish was laughing in fish heaven) and handle deep sea guts and viscera. It was especially distressing since it was a female fish and I had to extract the ovaries. Then again, that's as close as I've been to female ovaries (of any species) in quite a while. Maybe I should brag about it.
Frankly, I think it's all a waste of time, and have even less respect for the "sport" of fishing than I had before. Who the hell wants to clean these things? Why do people want to eat food that has eyes, for God's sake? I don't know about you, but I don't want my food watching me while I eviscerate it, let alone eat the damn thing. I got through the nonsense surprisingly calm, even joking about it ("Tonight this fish sleeps with the fishes"). Maybe I just didn't give a fudge. Others, like the guy next to me, were venting their frustrations by shouting, "Man, this a goddam nightmare! I don't believe this sh*t!"). Others complained that the sight of fish innards was making them ill. There merely verbalized what i was thinking the whole time.
Of my teammates, only Pitbull really had the hang of cutting and gutting fish; maybe he's the Gorton's Fisherman. Even Rain Man had problems with this assignment; you could tell he wasn't used to having difficulty with preparing food, so I imagine he was a bit put out by the experience. As for me, I pretty much butchered the assignment -- literally. I was told this when I asked Chef X for help. I merely responded, "Yeah I know it's all f**ked up. Just show me what to do so I can get through this thing." He graciously demonstrated the fine art of filleting out of concern for time constraints more than concern for my actually understanding what the hell I was doing.
Which is fine by me. At this point I merely wish to get the whole sad, sorry business over with. The good news is that we're more than halfway through this course. The bad news is that there's another 5-week course to follow in garde manger. And oh yeah -- we get to cut up a chicken tonight. Guess who can't hardly wait.
One nice byproduct of the classes, however (yeah I do actually have something complementary to say about the experience) is that the students get to eat their own cooking. Actually, I think Chef X looks forward to this more than we do. Over the last two classes, we've enjoyed various beef dishes and fish entrees like Sole Vin Blanc or some Frenchy sounding name. Whatever, it was made with white wine, so it must be good. I say this because I didn't try any of it even though my team made it. I don't generally eat fish. I did try the battered fish (ala Long John Silver's) and it was pretty good.
Frankly, from my experience thus far about reading of beef cuts and filleting fishes I'm finding it ever more difficult to eat the flesh of these animals. When they talk about cutting here and taking out veins and whatnot, it sounds like we're training to be morticians, chefs. And when they talk about preparing internal organs like hearts, kidney, sweetbreads (thymus) or tongue, forget it. By then I'm halfway to the nearest toilet to pray to the porcelain god. I may well come out of this a vegetarian!
And so I'll conclude this episode of my blog -- for now. Why so short an entry? Well, judging from some of the feedback I've received, some of you think I get a bit long-winded at times. In an effort to appease my readers (both of them) I've decided to shorten some of this purple prose and hopefully make it more pleasing to the eyeballs (of which I could use more, so do spread the word). And no, I didn't forget about the wild behavior that's been going on about the SA campus. But that's what we in the entertainment biz call a "cliffhanger". In the meantime, check out one of my favorite graphic novels, soon to be a major motion picture.
Quote of the day:
"People do some strange things for a little bit of change!"
Friday, February 3, 2012
HINJFCA 17: Cooking Up Food For Thought
It was the best of times ... well, you know the rest of that quote. Suffice to say that it fairly sums up my recent experiences with the culinary class I've been attending. As you recall, I have no experience in the food service industry. What I may have neglected to add is that I also have no experience in cooking ... period. That's right, your humble narrator is a chap who never found the time -- or more importantly, the inclination -- to buy ingredients and prepare them at home.
To me the idea of cooking seemed like a waste of time; still does. Why bake a cake, broil a roast, fix various cookies, etc. when you can buy all that stuff ready-made? To me, the idea of cooking simply represents a hassle, one that I can easily avoid. While this might make James Beard turn over in his grave (or giant-sized rotisserie as the case may be), I find cooking to be a tedious and needless task.
Seriously, I cannot comprehend the fascination of standing over piles of raw ingredients, measuring them out (makes my brain hurt just thinking of all the damned math involved) and chopping stuff into microscopic bits with razor-sharp knives. If you've read anything about my experience with sharp objects, you know why I'm antsy around knives and/or other sharp objects. Unfortunately, kitchens are crammed with sharp objects (although some of the cooks can be dull) and other various machinery that can cut, maim, crush, pulverize, or otherwise send an unsuspecting worker to the hospital, if not the grave.
And getting back to the standing around bit: I'm talking about hours of standing, with minimal movement except for the upper body. Your legs tend to stay put. I've found that whether I'm cooking something, standing in the serving line, or working the dishwasher, the result of all that standing is the same the next morning I wake up with a sore lower back and feet. It takes the better part of a day for the pain to recede and by then, guess what? Right, it's time to go back to work.
These are just my experiences since last November working in the Salvation Army kitchens. I can't imagine the toll such standing around would take on my body were I employed in a "real" job (ie, one that involves a paycheck). These are some of the reasons I don't like the idea of working as a cook of any sort. I don't like the work because its very nature strains my patience to the point of breaking. And because of the physical discomfort, you'll forgive me if I refer to the process of cooking as a literal pain in the ass.
Yet, there are plenty of people out there who do love to cook usually, these are the same people who love to eat, and can appreciate fine food as befits a true gourmand. Notice you don't see a lot of svelte cooks out there; my guess is their customers would questions the food quality of a skinny chef (that is, unless they specialized in healthy cuisine). Such people view dining out as an experience. So be it. They live to eat.
I'm not here to say they're wrong. But I've always been more of a 'eat-to-live' chap. Give me the basics and I'm fine. I don't need my food to look like a work of art; it doesn't have to look like a tiny sculpture. Anyway, the shape of food has never influenced its taste, at least not for me. Maybe some people are susceptible to a form of 'culinary hypnosis.' Or maybe they just want to be thought of sophisticated. I guess it's no accident that so many food shows like Hell's Kitchen are so popular.
Anyway, why am I ragging on (and on) the culinary industry? just to put my viewpoint in perspective for you as I now rag upon the culinary class I'm taking. Last Tuesday was a good class as I managed to follow along with my 2 teammates in making carious basic soups. Our consomme turned out very nice, very clear. It's yellow clarity prompted Pitbull to comment, "It looks like fresh, steaming piss." While I doubt it would be described as such in a menu, his observation was accurate. (In fact, it makes me think of how odd it is that so many foods and ingredients tend to resemble human bodily fluids in color and texture. Remind me to comment on this in detail in a future post.)
Our teacher, Chef X, was pleased by our work, saying it was "fine." That's about as good as it gets from this guy, trust me. Some students find Chef X to be a prick because he's so blunt and direct. Personally, I don't mind being told the truth, even if it hurts. This chef is also very demonstrative, using his hands whenever he talks. He has an accent that I pegged for Eastern, perhaps upper Midwest; but he says he was born and raised in California. He spent a year in Oklahoma and "my dad said I came back talking like an Okie."
Whatever. With his burly, overweight build, direct manner and propensity for cursing (upon leaving a stove on too long and burning one of his recipies, he shouted, "S**t! I f**ked it up, godammit!") he makes me think The Sopranos would've loved this guy. One thing that he didn't love was my effort(s) on Wednesday night. We had to work individually to make mashed potatoes. He said my potatoes were too thin, too cold, and didn't have enough salt (nobody's effort had enough salt, apparently). Other than that it was fine. The rice dish I made was undercooked and basically inedible (tasted okay to me, as did the potatoes).
A lot of the students were anxious about the grade he was marking down for them, and even asked what grade they were receiving. A check mark meant 100, which my teammate Rain Man received for his efforts. Then again, the guy has 15+ years experience in the culinary field and managed a McDonalds. PB is likely getting B+ grades. And your humble narrator? I expect I'm lowering the curve, to put it kindly.
The bad thing is, I don't especially care. And this plays in with my general lack of interest in the subject matter. I've found that in the past I did best with subjects in which I had a great interest and/or aptitude: Writing, art, history would be examples. I had some interest in math but had no aptitude for anything past simple algebra (even that was a hassle). With cooking, I have no interest OR aptitude in the subject; what should I expect would happen in such a circumstance?
This is a classic case of wrong student, wrong subject and wrong class. The overwhelming majority of my fellow students have at least some degree of culinary experience. In addition to RM, a couple of them attended the Cordon Bleu school (but dropped out for various reasons, like criminal behavior). Even those with no formal experience have done some cooking at home. As you know by now, I possess no such culinary background (if you listen closely you can hear the world's tiniest violin playing.
So why am I there in the first place? Because the SA caseworker told me that my culinary inexperience didn't matter. Yeah. And this was told to with a straight face, so I accepted it. This class might be called basic cooking, but some degree of experience is required to fully understand it (at least for me). I needed a ground floor class that assumes the student has no knowledge of cooking. As in, this is a spatula. This is a mixing bowl. These are eggs and here's how to crack them. Simple stuff, right?
I don't know what to do about it just yet, but I'll take the weekend to mull it over.Likely I'll have to plead my culinary ignorance to Chef X or my SA caseworker to see if I can be graded on a lower standard. Right now, the only thing I'm learning from this cooking class is how to cook my own goose.
Let's move on to another subject: Co-worker relations in the SA kitchens. As you know, your humble narrator is an easy going bloke, never looking for trouble when it can be avoided. I'm happy to say I've gained a rep for being personable and easy to work with. That in mind, I had decided to practice with a knife any try to become comfortable using it but cutting up a couple of potatoes. I took a spare cutting board and a chef' knife and went in the dining room adjacent to our kitchens and cafe dining room.
This area (known as the homeless dining room due to the free meals given out here) is always empty during my morning shift (5a-1p). With some downtime, I set up shop in the room and commenced practicing. About five minutes later a co-worker named Harry walks in and decides to watch me. Understand that Harry has some personality quirks that require strong medication. He has a tendency to babble, twitch and make odd facial contortions as a result of his affliction. I asked him nicely if he would move on, as I wanted to practice alone. He complied.
A few minutes later another co-worker appeared. This was a short, rotund black guy who looks like the late actor Godfrey Cambridge. He stopped by to watch as well. When I told him what I was doing he said, "Hey man, you doin' it wrong" and stared at me. I politely asked him if he would leave me be as his presence was distracting. He too complied.
A few minutes after that, yet another co-worker shows up. What is this, Grand Central Station? This is a middle-aged black volunteer named Jackson, who is known for wearing a cowboy hat. He walks over and advises me that the lead cooks will "kick your ass if they find you in here doing that." Now irritated I mumble something like, "We'll see" and continue cutting the potato.
Jackson walks over to inspect my work and says in a snide tone, "Who you makin' that for? It's gotta be for you."
"No," I say, "I'm making it for the troops overseas."
"You don't have to be a smartass about it! I only asked a question!"
"And I gave you an answer." I continued cutting the potato.
"You said it was for troops overseas!" Jackson said, louder.
"That's what I said." I made the reply as quietly as possible, not wanting to ignite a shouting match. After that I said nothing but continued practicing, ignoring him. He finally got the message and left without another word. While he likely thinks I'm an asshole, I like to think I successfully defused a potential problematic situation with my calm demeanor. My only regret is that I massacred an innocent potato while practicing upon it.
So that'll wrap it up for this installment. More fun next time! Y'all come back now, hear?
Quote of the Day: "Fat is flavor", Chef X
To me the idea of cooking seemed like a waste of time; still does. Why bake a cake, broil a roast, fix various cookies, etc. when you can buy all that stuff ready-made? To me, the idea of cooking simply represents a hassle, one that I can easily avoid. While this might make James Beard turn over in his grave (or giant-sized rotisserie as the case may be), I find cooking to be a tedious and needless task.
Seriously, I cannot comprehend the fascination of standing over piles of raw ingredients, measuring them out (makes my brain hurt just thinking of all the damned math involved) and chopping stuff into microscopic bits with razor-sharp knives. If you've read anything about my experience with sharp objects, you know why I'm antsy around knives and/or other sharp objects. Unfortunately, kitchens are crammed with sharp objects (although some of the cooks can be dull) and other various machinery that can cut, maim, crush, pulverize, or otherwise send an unsuspecting worker to the hospital, if not the grave.
And getting back to the standing around bit: I'm talking about hours of standing, with minimal movement except for the upper body. Your legs tend to stay put. I've found that whether I'm cooking something, standing in the serving line, or working the dishwasher, the result of all that standing is the same the next morning I wake up with a sore lower back and feet. It takes the better part of a day for the pain to recede and by then, guess what? Right, it's time to go back to work.
These are just my experiences since last November working in the Salvation Army kitchens. I can't imagine the toll such standing around would take on my body were I employed in a "real" job (ie, one that involves a paycheck). These are some of the reasons I don't like the idea of working as a cook of any sort. I don't like the work because its very nature strains my patience to the point of breaking. And because of the physical discomfort, you'll forgive me if I refer to the process of cooking as a literal pain in the ass.
Yet, there are plenty of people out there who do love to cook usually, these are the same people who love to eat, and can appreciate fine food as befits a true gourmand. Notice you don't see a lot of svelte cooks out there; my guess is their customers would questions the food quality of a skinny chef (that is, unless they specialized in healthy cuisine). Such people view dining out as an experience. So be it. They live to eat.
I'm not here to say they're wrong. But I've always been more of a 'eat-to-live' chap. Give me the basics and I'm fine. I don't need my food to look like a work of art; it doesn't have to look like a tiny sculpture. Anyway, the shape of food has never influenced its taste, at least not for me. Maybe some people are susceptible to a form of 'culinary hypnosis.' Or maybe they just want to be thought of sophisticated. I guess it's no accident that so many food shows like Hell's Kitchen are so popular.
Anyway, why am I ragging on (and on) the culinary industry? just to put my viewpoint in perspective for you as I now rag upon the culinary class I'm taking. Last Tuesday was a good class as I managed to follow along with my 2 teammates in making carious basic soups. Our consomme turned out very nice, very clear. It's yellow clarity prompted Pitbull to comment, "It looks like fresh, steaming piss." While I doubt it would be described as such in a menu, his observation was accurate. (In fact, it makes me think of how odd it is that so many foods and ingredients tend to resemble human bodily fluids in color and texture. Remind me to comment on this in detail in a future post.)
Our teacher, Chef X, was pleased by our work, saying it was "fine." That's about as good as it gets from this guy, trust me. Some students find Chef X to be a prick because he's so blunt and direct. Personally, I don't mind being told the truth, even if it hurts. This chef is also very demonstrative, using his hands whenever he talks. He has an accent that I pegged for Eastern, perhaps upper Midwest; but he says he was born and raised in California. He spent a year in Oklahoma and "my dad said I came back talking like an Okie."
Whatever. With his burly, overweight build, direct manner and propensity for cursing (upon leaving a stove on too long and burning one of his recipies, he shouted, "S**t! I f**ked it up, godammit!") he makes me think The Sopranos would've loved this guy. One thing that he didn't love was my effort(s) on Wednesday night. We had to work individually to make mashed potatoes. He said my potatoes were too thin, too cold, and didn't have enough salt (nobody's effort had enough salt, apparently). Other than that it was fine. The rice dish I made was undercooked and basically inedible (tasted okay to me, as did the potatoes).
A lot of the students were anxious about the grade he was marking down for them, and even asked what grade they were receiving. A check mark meant 100, which my teammate Rain Man received for his efforts. Then again, the guy has 15+ years experience in the culinary field and managed a McDonalds. PB is likely getting B+ grades. And your humble narrator? I expect I'm lowering the curve, to put it kindly.
The bad thing is, I don't especially care. And this plays in with my general lack of interest in the subject matter. I've found that in the past I did best with subjects in which I had a great interest and/or aptitude: Writing, art, history would be examples. I had some interest in math but had no aptitude for anything past simple algebra (even that was a hassle). With cooking, I have no interest OR aptitude in the subject; what should I expect would happen in such a circumstance?
This is a classic case of wrong student, wrong subject and wrong class. The overwhelming majority of my fellow students have at least some degree of culinary experience. In addition to RM, a couple of them attended the Cordon Bleu school (but dropped out for various reasons, like criminal behavior). Even those with no formal experience have done some cooking at home. As you know by now, I possess no such culinary background (if you listen closely you can hear the world's tiniest violin playing.
So why am I there in the first place? Because the SA caseworker told me that my culinary inexperience didn't matter. Yeah. And this was told to with a straight face, so I accepted it. This class might be called basic cooking, but some degree of experience is required to fully understand it (at least for me). I needed a ground floor class that assumes the student has no knowledge of cooking. As in, this is a spatula. This is a mixing bowl. These are eggs and here's how to crack them. Simple stuff, right?
I don't know what to do about it just yet, but I'll take the weekend to mull it over.Likely I'll have to plead my culinary ignorance to Chef X or my SA caseworker to see if I can be graded on a lower standard. Right now, the only thing I'm learning from this cooking class is how to cook my own goose.
Let's move on to another subject: Co-worker relations in the SA kitchens. As you know, your humble narrator is an easy going bloke, never looking for trouble when it can be avoided. I'm happy to say I've gained a rep for being personable and easy to work with. That in mind, I had decided to practice with a knife any try to become comfortable using it but cutting up a couple of potatoes. I took a spare cutting board and a chef' knife and went in the dining room adjacent to our kitchens and cafe dining room.
This area (known as the homeless dining room due to the free meals given out here) is always empty during my morning shift (5a-1p). With some downtime, I set up shop in the room and commenced practicing. About five minutes later a co-worker named Harry walks in and decides to watch me. Understand that Harry has some personality quirks that require strong medication. He has a tendency to babble, twitch and make odd facial contortions as a result of his affliction. I asked him nicely if he would move on, as I wanted to practice alone. He complied.
A few minutes later another co-worker appeared. This was a short, rotund black guy who looks like the late actor Godfrey Cambridge. He stopped by to watch as well. When I told him what I was doing he said, "Hey man, you doin' it wrong" and stared at me. I politely asked him if he would leave me be as his presence was distracting. He too complied.
A few minutes after that, yet another co-worker shows up. What is this, Grand Central Station? This is a middle-aged black volunteer named Jackson, who is known for wearing a cowboy hat. He walks over and advises me that the lead cooks will "kick your ass if they find you in here doing that." Now irritated I mumble something like, "We'll see" and continue cutting the potato.
Jackson walks over to inspect my work and says in a snide tone, "Who you makin' that for? It's gotta be for you."
"No," I say, "I'm making it for the troops overseas."
"You don't have to be a smartass about it! I only asked a question!"
"And I gave you an answer." I continued cutting the potato.
"You said it was for troops overseas!" Jackson said, louder.
"That's what I said." I made the reply as quietly as possible, not wanting to ignite a shouting match. After that I said nothing but continued practicing, ignoring him. He finally got the message and left without another word. While he likely thinks I'm an asshole, I like to think I successfully defused a potential problematic situation with my calm demeanor. My only regret is that I massacred an innocent potato while practicing upon it.
So that'll wrap it up for this installment. More fun next time! Y'all come back now, hear?
Quote of the Day: "Fat is flavor", Chef X
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