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Youngest and Bucket Go West:

Thats right folks, pack that bag with linen pants, summer dresses, and a bottle of Motrin to control those hangovers!

This time, WINE COUNTRY!

Four days and five nights to address all that Napa, St. Helena, Healdsburg, Sonoma, and Yountville have to offer. Oh yeah, and a quick stop in San Fran. In brief, life is great and the likely hood of me perishing due to over eating was on high alert.

We board our plane on time- no worries I didn’t drug up my little Bucket but hooked him to a portable DVD player to entertain him while we fly. In those four hours in mid air, I read over the numerous restaurants that were available to me in the next four days. Where should we go, what should I order, what winery should I go to? Will I feel different about San Fran since the last time I was there was nine years prior when I worked at Farallon in Union Square? All I know is that I was going to eat a ridiculous amount of food, and perhaps I should have just packed some moo-moos and called it a day.

We touch down in San Francisco and already we are starving. We pick up our Jeep- that’s right; we are a rugged couple with our all wheel drive. I hooked up Sheila, our GPS system that I borrowed from Vive la Frenchie, who despite her being such a diva at times (the GPS that is) was a huge help this weekend. Bags in back. Where to first, Shelia?

TARTINE BAKERY.

Amazing croissants, rich flaky banana cream pie, moist pound cake, luscious quiche, tasty coffee, lesbians, hipsters, and under arm hair; Pastry Chef Mecca. I was in heaven; to think that such a place could exist AND win a James Beard makes one believe in fairy tales and princes. I thrived at the idea that one could have a bakery that didn’t use fancy décor and flashy flavors to create such a wonderful establishment. I left inspired, gushing with hope, and really fucking full.

We waddled over to our Jeep and set sail for St. Helena, our home for the next four days. Being in the industry, you have the opportunity to meet all walks of food life and occasionally cross paths with those that present a remarkable opportunity. We were invited to stay at Somerston Winery in Yountville. As we followed Kaia, our tour guide to the vineyard, we realized that we had been driving up this huge mountain for over twenty minutes. Where were we going and more importantly how are we going to manage to get back after a twelve course meal with two bottles of wine?

The gates opened to Somerston and it was truly gorgeous. Acres upon acres of perfectly groomed vines, row-by-row stalking up the mountains and reaching the sky. A reflective pond with its lonesome swam, a porch wrapped ranch house in the middle of it all, a large pool with deck in back, cute kitchen, country style bedroom, and off-road vehicles to race around the lot; this was all ours for the next few days. This is how the other half lives. Only thing we were told to be mindful of was that there was no phone reception out here and to not walk around at night due to mountain lions. Grrreat.

Our next food outing was Bottega, Chef Chiarello’s regional Italian cuisine, set in a refined rustic setting offering outside seating next to the fire, to grabbing a stool by their bar or sitting in a banquette overlooking the open kitchen. (Obviously I did it all.) The Oscar of the evening goes to the Lamb Osso bucco for its outstanding performance in a Main Dish; of falling effortlessly off the bone and dripping with luscious juices down my chin to its finally destination, my watering mouth. GO MEAT!

I will say that driving up a winding mountain side when its pitch black outside with no guard rails or lights, after having a rewarding meal with great Italian wines to accompany, is well….terrifying. Bucket did his best to not scare the osso bucco out of me and made it home safely. Well, after we woke up the groundkeeper due to us not having the right password to get thru the gates. (Side note: it did cross my mind that if we didn’t get ahold of someone right there we may have to sleep in the car and also realized that dearest Bucket and myself always find ourselves in a “Hardy Boy” situation. But to my despair, I am not equipped with my flashlight and Swiss army knife to fight off the hungry stricken mountain lions, but only have 4 inch heels, a clutch bag, and a bag of left over osso bucco.)

The following day was a blur of stuffing an ungodly amount of food in my mouth. We drove to all over wine country to such wonderful establishments like Girl and the Fig, Press, Dean and Deluca, Umbunti and Willi’s Seafood and Raw Bar where I found the love of my mouth. The Miyagi oyster. This sweet briny delicate buttery goodness of love is quite possibly the best thing I have ever had the privilege of tasting. Mr. Miyagi, not only were you the best martial arts teacher in the classic 1984 hit Karate Kid but you’re a damn good oyster to boot.

Now I know you are thinking to yourself it’s a romantic get away, a perfect place for a couple to be alone and spend some quality time together; “well did they”? And folks, we did.

We went to The French Laundry.

I have been wanting to dine at The French Laundry for over a decade, so needless to say I was excited. To my disbelief, Bucket being the avid dinner that he is, had never been. So we were embarking on this food journey together.

The tiny building that holds this three star Michelin restaurant is quaint and inviting and once we were sat in the cozy sun roof studded room we noticed that we were in the Asian sensation room since every other table in this tiny tiny room were all Asian and every table that left was only to be re-sat by another Asian couple. I concluded it was because of my remarkable high cheekbones and Buckets fashionable clothing that we donned these seats.

At this point I ask myself do I dissect this meal and point out my favorites and perhaps my thoughts of what could have been improved or do allow myself to hold on to this meal as a mark, an experience, that I truly hope that every cook, every server, every foodie, every person that enjoys a remarkable moment in time to attend. So I leave the mystery in Yountville, in hopes that this may intrigue you to book that flight and drive those miles to the motherland that is The French Laundry.

But the food fun doesn’t stop there. The following day I grab my sunglasses to shield my hangover eyes from the sun and dine at Bistro Jeanty. Having fallen in love with classical French cooking lately, I was not disappointed in this a la Amelie’ restaurant. With tomato soup covered in flaky buttery layers of puff pastry to Chicken Coq au Van to vanilla bean crème brulee, I no longer cared that my liver was soon to go on strike due to the copious amounts of fat and wine I had consumed in the last seventy-two hours.

We mustered up for our last meal, Redd. I am about to go out on a limb and say that this was my favorite meal. Was it because my Bucket looked dashing in his grey theory summer suit, or perhaps it was how he said “Happy Birthday Baby” at every west coast meal to make up for the fact that on my actual birthday two weeks prior I worked fifteen hours that day and had to sleep at the hotel. Or maybe, just maybe it was the “Prom Queen” cocktail that was bright pink and made me giggle (Y: "How was the Prom Queen?" B: "Just like I remembered...) or the chicken thigh sun choke dish that blew my skirt up just right or the four desserts that we ordered and tried just because we wanted to. Redd is a fairly new restaurant to the wine country scene, having been open in 2005. Despite its youth, I think in my humble opinion, it possesses a lasting ability that I hope to return and try once again.

Just when I thought that we has exhausted out jaws from all that chewing we made one last stop before we were mid-west bound. Zuni Café in San Fran. With the light asparagus pasta and lambs tongue salad (which I would be lying if I said didn’t freak me out cause you actually see the taste buds and then I start thinking about my tongue and what if you cut that up and so forth and so on….a vicious cycle really) Zuni is a classic for a reason. It deliveries damn tasty fare.

Thus ends the adventures of Youngest and Bucket on the west coast. Where we may travel to next, I’m sure ridiculousness and great food is sure to follow. Perhaps, the Big Apple will be next or maybe Sin City, or…….Savannah?

Tune in for next time…..

-Youngest

My Milkshake Brings All the Boys to the Yard:

In the recent years there has been a misguiding notion that chefs are the new rock stars. No, that doesn’t mean that I don my pleather pants, six-inch biker boots and paint my face to look like a cat to attend work. Even though that would be a change form the oversized stark white chef jackets and black baggy chef pants that just scream mom jeans! With chef celebrity television shows, books, magazines, pots and pan lines, and lets not forget their own sitcom; we have forgotten that something is cooking in the oven. (We all recall the sitcom Emeril…right? I can’t hear the word BAM without instantly vomiting in my mouth)

How did this misconception happen? And more importantly, how are we going to make sure it doesn’t ruin the whole profession? Granted, chefs generally have large egos to start with; hell we play with knives and fire all day but we don’t need a talk show to make our heads any bigger. I believe it started with the birth of the Food Network. It seemed harmless, I’m sure. Lets put good chefs on television to showcase how to really cook to the public and because most people like to eat they are likely to watch it. No harm done right? Wrong.

It would seem like anything we showcase on television, print, movies; we feel the need to overexpose it at nausium. Having programs that promote classical cooking techniques wasn’t enough. They brought you Iron Chef, Top Chef, Cupcake Wars, Man vs. Food, and a million other reality chef shows that become less and less about food and more and more about how one could be the next “Celebrity Chef”. I will say that there is much incentive for a chef to appear on these shows; to help them stand out in an insanely rapidly growing chef pool. Why is this profession growing at such a ridiculously rate to the point where thousands of kids are flooding into a market that doesn’t have the structure to withhold it? Easy. This profession has been marketed as the next rock stars. They see chefs throwing fits on prime time and think that it is their true calling, or perhaps yes, yes I could be happy telling someone to “pack their knives and go.” But when you get these kids, and yes, they are kids, in your kitchens and hand them a prep list, they don’t understand that you have to work your ass off to really hack it in this profession and you, the professional, are stuck with their entitlitis.

(Foot note: Entitlitis noun. (en-title-i-tis) the modern epidemic of new individuals in the workforce that feel that they are due instant perks and privileges just because they are there and not because they have worked for it)

It wasn’t enough that this industry is riddled with addictive personalities leading to drugs, alcohol abuse, and the common Peter Pan syndrome. We can now glorify the fact, instead of creating hard working true to form professionals to enter the ever-competitive market. Even better, if we have the capability to be celebrities and rock stars then perhaps we have the opportunity to make $20M per season at a hotel like Bono or perhaps Madonna make per tour. Perhaps I should tell my chef that and right after be running out of the kitchen with my pink slip in hand and a copper pot up my ass.

I am not certain is there is a solution to this ever increasing problem. I would like to think that as a chef we can be appreciated and supported by our peers and patrons that enable us to be successful and allow us to do what it is that we love to do. Cook.

I wonder when Kelis wrote her milkshake song was she perhaps working at a DQ and realized that she too could have a one hit wonder about the delicious and addictive nature of milkshakes after watching a good hour of Top Chef Masters? Whenever I hear that hypnotic jingle I always crave a good vanilla milkshake or even better a malt! People at times confuse the two ice cold treats but the only real difference is that one contains malt powder which gives a slightly sour flavor appeal and thicker mouth feel.

Milk shakes are easy to make and indeed bring the boys to the yard. You mention making one of these creamy flavorful treats; no one will be able to resist you. My favorite growing up was the one my dad always made on a hot summer day, Coffee Milkshake. All you need is coffee ice cream, chocolate sauce, milk, and a blender. Now in days I get a bit creative and make my own ice cream or add other ingredients to the mix, a banana, coffee liquor, orange zest, cardamom for a Turkish coffee effect, the list is endless especially if you start investigating what you have left in the freezer or kitchen cabinets.

I would be more than happy to share with you my Dad’s Classic Coffee Milkshake recipe that really is to die for especially in these hot summer months.

I can teach you. But I’ll have to charge.

La-la. La. La-la.

-Youngest

Dad’s Famously Delicious "Better Than Yours " Coffee Milk Shake:

1 pint Haagen daz

1.5 cups whole milk

per taste Herheys Chocolate sauce

1 “glug” Bailys Irish Cream- if it’s been a long day, perhaps 2 glugs or maybe the whole damn bottle…

Place all this in the blender and turn on high. Be sure to have the lid on- its not a pretty site…believe me, I’ve seen it. Be sure to not to run it too long because it will heat up the mixture and make it soupy. Go get that chilled pina colada glass from the freezer and fill her up. Best served up with friends on a patio.

Sugar Rush

I constantly eat pastries. Sugar. Flour. Eggs. Butter. I love every moment of it.

That is until I have to go to the dentist.

Note to self: I HATE the dentist but I do have a great one that even when I have a cavity (in this case I had 2) they put me under the gas.

I have had this once before and came up with some awesome desserts so I thought this would be a perfect time for me to figure out what I would do for my tastings since I was currently on the market for a new job. (No worries readers, a blog “Bitter Chick Down, I repeat Bitter Chick Down” is coming out shortly to dissect that topic).

So, I took one big huff of that gas, opened wide and delved deeper into my subconscious hoping to find some new way to present a tart, or perhaps a different combination of flavors. (At this point I really wished I had a pen and paper to write what I would have uncovered and more importantly the motor skills to actually write this all down. This is the best I what I recalled)

I awaited thoughts of pastry cream, chocolate and oh, perhaps….. summer fruits!! None appeared and I was left with the deafening sound of the drill and the constant reality of the thoughts that went thru my head daily.

Ms. All I Care About it My J-O-B- quit her job. How could I do this? Am I royally messing up my career by leaving this post and not even worrying about where I will go next? Lets face it, I don’t know where I want to go next! As the date gets nearer and nearer I glance past the time that I spent between those walls, in that building, with those people. The things I learned, the ridiculous amount of time I spent there, the food I created, the people I let down because “I had to be at work.” I go back and forth between “is it worth it” and “this is how its done to be successful” and have yet to find the right answer.

The growing pains that I endured in the last two years has created this monumental moment in my life that makes me wonder, “Who do I want to be?” Before I had never questioned what it is that I wanted to do, nor how I would spend my time- the answer was always work. But as I saw life passing away- Thanksgivings I missed, baby showers I couldn’t attend, phone calls I could even find the time to pick up, I realized that sure, I could devote my life to food but would that really be enough for me?

I began to rethink this whole love affair with food. Its not that I don’t adore creating things of butter, sugar, and flour but when does hiding behind your profession because you are too scared to see what else is out there become acceptable? The equally scarier thought, is that did I even know that I was doing it?

What it boils down to is that I was always a “me” person. My career, my trip, my sandwich, my cat, my life. My constant run in with significant others never really seemed to crack the “me life”- I was never willing to give in that much. One day I was in love with them the next day I was in love with a ham and cheese croissant. (They really are sexy…) The constant obsession of the chase, of the “something new” became an addiction and me running to my work to hide from any kind of real attachment was the easy way out.

It wasn’t until recent that I began seeing things from outside the looking glass. Was it because I was emotionally and physically run down from a job that nothing ever seemed enough? Or perhaps I just wanted some sense of normalcy and the fact that I couldn’t seem to get control of my own life that made me do it. Or having a boyfriend that actually supported me and truly understood what I meant when I said “I want to date an adult.” Could be one of these many layers building up that made me strike for a change?

I took another breathe- she was only on the first tooth so I figured I had some time.

There are things that I took for granted; things that I figured would always be there- despite what I chose to do with “my life.” My family, my friends, my health- that as I got older and my medical bills became a monthly thing, I realized I had to pay more attention to because one day they will all be gone. (Obviously would hope that the medical bills are gone anytime before the family and friends…) And with that there is more to life then just my J-O-B. Granted, I love what I do and the things that I am able to create. But I also love to read, to travel, to see my mom make that damn cranberry upside down cake that she bitches about not coming out perfect even though it IS perfect ever year, to seeing my sister laugh so hard that no noise comes out, to seeing the sun at some point during the summer, to getting all my girlfriends together for dinner and not once in two years, to kissing my boyfriend goodnight EVERY night, not just the nights I can make it.

Obviously I am not naïve enough to think that I will stop working and somehow be able to enjoy all these life’s giving’s all of a sudden. But what I can do is stop living the “me” life and start making it a “we” life. Realizing that I want to be there for the people I love and understand that comes with obstacles. I could sit there and figure out menus, new techniques, schedules, time lines; its time that I figured in birthdays, holidays, phone dates, I love yous.

Good God, she’s on to tooth two….another big huff.

At this point I feel woozy and the taste of metal is starting to really irritate the hell out of me, but I tell myself its time to wrap this up and have some sort of conclusion in this hazy mental state of mind.

In this time of uncertainty, of leaving a job that was my life and not certain as to what is next, to moving to a new apartment in less than two weeks, to holding my boyfriends hand at the funeral of his oldest brother in three days, I can only feel that I will do my best to be that better person and not just a better pastry chef.

As I slowly drift out of my induced haze, with dry lips I attempted to piece together my thoughts over the last thirty minutes. With all the things that I had to take care of and never having enough time to do it, I felt inclined to take the time to share this.

Granted, I hate going to the dentist and partially my ridiculous intake of pastries do not help the health of my teeth. However, if it weren’t for their care perhaps I would not have stumbled upon such thoughts.

Now what to do with this numb mouth?

Not My Mom’s Upside Down Cake But Mine:

Smear:

6oz butter

8oz brown sugar

.5 cup toasted chopped hazelnuts

Method: melt you butter and whisk in your sugar and nuts. Allow to set up room temp.

Cake:

8oz toasted hazelnuts processed fine

1.5c sugar

6 oz butter

3 eggs

1t vanilla extract

325g crème fraiche

2.5c All purpose flour

1T baking powder

1.5t salt

Method: cream your nuts, sugar and butter till light and fluffy. Add you eggs and vanilla slowly. Add crème fraiche, be sure to scrap down the sides of the bowl. Add your dries at the end. Grease one baking bake and spread the smear all over. Chop fresh fruit (pineapple is super tasty with this recipe) and place into the smear. Cover with cake batter about ¾ way full. Place in a 350F oven and bake till golden brown. Allow to cool slightly and when about room temp flip over and pat yourself on the back cause damn that cake looks nice.

p.s. babe….I finally get it.

Fudge.

Before I Climb Down From My Soapbox

Sous Chef. (so̵̅o̅′shef′)  noun: underappreciated, overworked, underpaid, must say “yes chef”, everyone voices an opinion about what you’re doing and you just have to suck it up, held responsible for everything but do not have the ultimate decision, not due to lack of ability but lack of title, glorified line cook.

 

The Culinary Adventures of Youngest and Bucket

Two swimsuits.  Four sundresses.  Flash lights. Hiking shoes.  84 oz can of ultra bug spray.

Ingredients necessary for five days in Verana. 

That’s right folks. Mexico.

Partner in crime, Bucket.  My adorable, well behaved, always says the right thing to counteract me saying the wrong things, boyfriend.  Oh, and he’s cute too.  

We packed our bags and got our pale behinds on a seven am flight to Puerto Vallarta.  Believe it or not, our adventure was already to begin.  You see, Bucket and myself are not the best of fliers.  Perhaps it’s the knowledge that we are 30,000 miles to our potential death, or maybe the made for tiny midget seats that makes us so uncomfortable.  (no offense to midgets but seriously, have you sat in coach lately?) Gifts from Dr. Youngest dad, medication was administered before we sat back, relaxed, and enjoyed our flight. Now, not quite sure at what point I looked up to my Bucket from my drugged induced coma, but he was not ok.  Apparently, this medication had not only not allowed him to sleep, but turned my adorable, mature guy into a drooling, lazy eye, needing a helmet and wait for the small bus individual.  (again, no offense to the small bus, it’s great that such services are provided…) And it gave him a hard on. 

Two hours later we land in Mexico.  Bucket had recovered, we had two hours to go thru customs, get our bags, and take an hour cab ride to Boca to catch the last speedboat of the day to take us to Verana. 

In brief, we were screwed.

The customs line was about a two-hour wait.  As I stood there taking in the situation, preparing myself to not freak out in front of Bucket, because we were on our first vacation together which honestly people, can make or break your relationship, to look up to see Senor Santos, Bucket, and a wheelchair. 

Que? You want me to what?!  Yup, we were doing this.  I sat my ass in that wheelchair, pretended that I was sick and got rolled out of custom with my bags and Bucket.  T minus 40 minutes till our boat takes off.  We have an hour drive. Again, screwed.  We look at the taxi line and hand pick our cab (the first few had “gordo” drivers that I just didn’t think they were up to the challenge.) When we saw the unmarked cab car with the cabbie blasting Mexican pop; I knew we had a winner.  As we threw our bags in the back we quickly explained that we had now 30 minutes to get to Boca to catch our boat.  Whatever the price was we would pay double.  Just get my pale ass there.  The man was quiet, contemplating this mission.  Looking in the mirror at us both he said slowly  “please put on your seat belts.”

Thirty minutes and ten near death experiences later, we make it to our boat.  We both ripped off our jeans, long sleeve shirts, boots, and clad our summer wear.  Having actually ten minutes to spare we indulged in our first Mexican snack.  Two Pacificos, chips and guacamole.  Vacation tastes amazing.  After polishing off two more Pacificos we boarded our speedboat and left for Verana.

Ah…..Verana. 

Close your eyes.  Imagine lush rolling mountains covered in trees, thrashing blue waves against multicolored jagged rocks, salty breeze, paradise.  Now shed that single tear because you just realized that you don’t live there. 

Verana is an amazing boutique hotel that offers eight custom built “houses” ranging from a Japanese tea house that is open to all of natures elements, to Mayan which had a private lounging area and then to my Studio, a glass enclosed half in half out house that has two out door seating areas offering the most amazing view out of the entire place.  These custom houses provide the perfect balance of out door natural aura with upscale urban comfort.  And an outdoor shower to boot.

Because this property only offers eight houses and is not the easiest to get to, it is quite secluded.  There is a gorgeous pool offering lounge chairs to work on your tan or in my case to work on just skin tone or you can fall asleep in the hammocks which was a favorite of mine despite waking up with your face half imprinted from the cloth.  At night they turn down your room and light an ungodly amount of candles, which provides the most romantic atmosphere possible.  Bucket had done good…

Eight am.  Waking up to the rolling hills merging with the trashing ocean was a religious experience.  Taking five minutes to entangle myself from the mosquito net surrounding our bed, I run to our front porch.  A breakfast snack awaits us!  Tea, coffee, and a delicious breakfast bakery to enjoy.

Then breakfast!  Fresh fruits, almond smoothie served in a gigantic margarita glass (to which ever time I heard the blender I yelled “someone is getting a smoothie”) migas, breakfast tacos that were addictive, FRESH yogurt for a delicious parfait which Bucket is somewhat a connoisseur of.  Everything was amazingly fresh, prepared well, and all served with the view of the ocean. 

Lunch consisted of melon gazpacho which I quickly craved everyday, Thai beef salad, fish cakes, and ceviche.  What was not to miss was their fresh juice of the day, hibiscus berry, watermelon mint, and pineapple ginger.  Truly intoxicating flavors that quenched your thirst and satisfied your taste buds.

Once 8 pm hit, dinner was served.  A three course prefix that ranged from grilled shrimp with rice, dates wrapped with bacon, chicken mole, taco Tuesday night, cheesecake, sweet empanadas, the list was endless.  The drink list offered a selection of custom cocktail, beer and wine.  The Michelada was the winner for us.  Lime juice, salt rim and a Pacifico.  Refreshing, light, delicious by the poolside, by your bedside, by your food side.

Your days were filled with lounging by the pool (everytime I would look up from my book and take in my surroundings, my eyes would glaze over in disbelief that something this beautiful could actually exists and I was actually there.); day hikes to Yelapa, Cathedral Falls, spa treatments, and Yoga.  We decided to take part in all of it.  Yelapa was a small town that was a thirty-minute hike that had a beach covered with outdoor restaurants and bars.  We were craving a Modelo Especial and Verana was all out so Yelapa was next up.  By speaking to the locals I come to find out they had a famous pie maker in town, Augustina.  She sold eight different pies everyday by walking up and down the beach between 11am and 3pm.  And she carried all these pies on her head.  I had to see this. No matter how many times we would ask where to find this Augustina we would always miss her; I was beginning to think she was a myth like the famous Iowa Unicorns.  On our way to Cathedral Waterfall, alas I see a stoutly woman carrying plastic tubs on her head.  Jackpot.  So we purchased the lemon and coconut pie, took a photo with the famous Yelapa pastry chef, and went on with our hike.

Augustina’s pies were light and delicious.  Expecting a dense lemon curd with a shiny toasted meringue, instead I found a light and airy lemon flan topped with a common meringue that had been baked in the oven till it was golden brown.  The Coconut pie was filled with dense shredded coconut held together by egg whites surrounded by a buttery pie shell.  We ate our pie slices by the waterfall and then hiked all the way back to Verana with our stomachs full.

Leaving Verana was an upsetting moment in which I swore on those beautiful waves and shiny rocks that I would return.  Perhaps even to live one day and bake delicious pastries in Mexico.  Senorita Youngest.  Yes, I think that has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?

Augustina, you and your pies, sleep with one eye open.

To find out more information about visiting Verana:

http://www.verana.com/website/asp/veranapage2.asp

A Second Helping of BullSh*t.

Apparently, I am onto something.

A couple of months back, I wrote about the Modern Chicken, the flavorless poultry of men who come into your life and leave you with a bad taste in your mouth. (For original article, go to the Sept posting).

Since that article, I have had the (unfortunate) chance to hear more stories of Modern Chickens than anyone could ever stomach. Case in point, I just heard today two back-to-back stories of men dating women exclusively for a period of time and then just miraculously flying away from the scene, without an explanation or even a hint of what was coming. In both scenarios, the women each took it upon themselves to contact the Modern Chicken directly in hopes of getting some sense of closure and perhaps (if lucky) some reasoning to their strange behavior. And of course, the Modern Chickens did what they do best. They eventually sent some BS email or txt message explaining nothing and of course, apologizing for nothing.

Modern Chickens may be able to fly, but they also know how to peck—peck into your life without you even noticing, peck interest in you so you do the same, and just when you thought it was safe to think what you saw in front of you was a man and not some feathered fiend, they peck you right in the head or heart and leave you with nothing but a huge serving of disrespect.

It’s fight or flight, fellas. Animals do it. And apparently, Modern Chickens do it too. But I am fighting back.

Don’t you dare send an email for something you know you should do live. Don’t run from a scene and think you are in the clear. Don’t hide out from your responsibilities and social graces. Don’t send unnecessary and inappropriate messages via technology hoping you can still get under someone’s skin or better yet, their pants. And please, don’t waste anyone’s time. Don’t waste our mothers, our friends, or any woman that you know. You have a mother somewhere out there who hopefully raised you right or did you come from an egg?

And most of all, don’t waste mine. Because if you even think of it, I will hunt you down and defeather you so quickly and throw you in the fryer so fast, you won’t even know I served your sorry ass for lunch.

And Dad, yeah, I got that txt message for my birthday.

- Eldest

Half Baked

2009 In a Nut Shell:

Its only natural at the end of the year to reflect upon the last twelve’s months.  2009 started rough for me; she was fickle, inconsistent, threw me under the bus whenever she could really.  All in all, 2009 was a bitch.

I almost feel as if she was that cool girl in high school that felt the need to torture…. surrounding you with her robots that make pastry cream from a powder.  These robots made me question who I was, what I wanted, why I wanted it to the extreme were I just didn’t know who I was at the end of the day. But alas, a silver lining, if it wasn’t for these difficult times and losing things I didn’t want to, I would have never found what my priorities really were. 

You see, my career always came first; never was it my family, my friends, my health.  But 2009, she let me have it.  She gave a dose so high that I couldn’t disregard the fact that I needed, wanted, other things aswell.  Does that mean that I have to retire my knife and spatula? No, of course not.  Does it mean that I will not acquire my dreams of owning my own establishment?  Never. 

For this Bitter Chick, a realization like this is hard to swallow.  To live a certain way for so long, then to attempt to change it can be somewhat, frightening.  I always submerged myself into my work, not allowing anything else to persuade me.  So perhaps I shall start by letting some people, some hobbies in, in place of my butter, sugar, egg obsession.  But don’t be fooled, they all must bring something to the table. 

Then I thought to myself…perhaps I just need to grow a pair.  Granted, being in the restaurant industry, I have developed what we consider a thick skin.  But alas, the façade of being that tough chick in the kitchen starts to get boring and what really counts is what you do with it; that being what you have learned over the years and your overall talent or perhaps lack of. 

So, 2010.  I’ve got my new pair.  Chestnuts to be exact.  Chestnuts can be boiled, grilled, confit, steamed, dried, made into a powder and symbolized chastity for the early Christians which stupefies me considering how rich and decadent this nut is!  This delicious starchy nut is commonly found in Italian and French desserts, but also is savory food friendly.

But let me be clear, these chestnuts will not be roasting on an open fire.  But prepared in a beautiful mille-feuille; using sugared golden puff pastry to contain the rich flavor.  Not to forget the candied chestnut studding the perfect chestnut mousseline cream.  Perfectly cut into rectangles to be enjoyed in three bites or less.  Close your eyes and off you go to one of the tastiest experience of 2010.

2009, you were the rollercoaster ride that I apparently needed to get my ass in gear.  I wish I could say it was fun and quite honestly, I am glad to see you go.

2010.  I own you.

 

Chestnut Mille-Feuille:

Puff Pastry: bought at the store because lets be honest, the time it takes to make the perfect puff pastry I will have opened the can of chestnut paste and eaten the entire contents… twice.

Bake the puff pastry in a 385F oven on parchment. Be sure to dock the hell out of it and sprinkle with sugar.  Once it begins to puff and get slight color take out of the oven place a piece of parchment on top and flip. Sprinkle more sugar on top and place the parchment and a wire rack on top.  Back till golden brown. 

Pastry Cream:

16oz milk

4oz sugar

1.25oz cornstarch

5.25oz egg yolks

1 vanilla bean split

Method:

Heat you milk, half of your sugar and split and scraped vanilla bean.  Allow to steep for 30 minutes covered with plastic.  Return to a boil.  Mix your other half of sugar with your cornstarch and whisk into your egg yolks.  Temper you hot liquid into your egg mix and place back on medium heat.  Cook while whisking till thickens.  When you see it start to boil, allow to do so for 60 seconds then take off and strain.

Cool over an ice bath with plastic wrap on top so it doesn’t develop a skin.

Chestnut Cream Filling:

16oz pastry cream

8oz cubed room temp butter

8oz chestnut paste

Method: Place in kitchen aid bowl with the whisk and whisk away till it turns into a fluffy creamy filling.  NO BUTTER CHUNKS.  This takes time, but in the end very worth it.

Once your puff pastry if baked and cooled; cut into 6X6 squares.  Drain a container of candied chestnuts. (Usually you can find these in specialty Italian markets)  Place some of the filling and spread evenly over one square of the puff pastry.  Place pieces of the candied chestnut into the cream.  Top off with more cream and evenly spread out.  Place the second layer of puff pastry on top (be sure to place the nicest side of the puff up) and press down evenly.  Allow to cool for 1 hour then cut using a serrated knife into 1”X2.5” rectangles or present as a cake.  Can decorate with powdered sugar, more candied chestnuts and gold leaf.