Muffin Top

Don't Rain on My Souffle

We all know that the restaurant-hospitality-food service industry is hard. The hours are long, the pay is worse, and you can kiss any sense of a normal non-liver-crushing life good-bye. But what we gain is a passion for the work we do and the sense of belonging to craft of people who day in and day out work their asses off to make something amazing. Each day turns into a month- into a year- building your career a little at a time. Honing your piping skills, how to manage a staff of six or even better how not to burn yourself out, practicing new techniques using hydrocolloids, how to make a fool proof schedule, perfecting how to ice a cake, is your food cost in line? - These all take time and inch-by-inch you see your improvement. Its slow, its tedious, its annoying.

Its almost as annoying as making a soufflé. Perfect little pockets created with the help of a French meringue, slowly building to complete a towering pastry structure; airy, slightly tanned, and extremely fragile.

What makes these classic pain-in-the-butt-to-make desserts such a marvel act of genius is the fact that the ingredient list is short, but the technique is incredibly involved. Finding the right consistency of your soufflé custard, to then be lightened with a French meringue, to only be carefully spooned into a butter and sugared ramekin (do not butter the bottom, I REPEAT, do not butter the bottom!!) gently laid in a water bath in a perfectly even oven, and to then patiently wait for it to rise, slightly caramelize, and build that great height every one is talking about. (In this case, size does matter folks.)

There was a time when I didn’t appreciate the simplicity, yet complicated nature of soufflés. I thought they were old fashioned and over done. But, where I went wrong was to think they were not delicious. Nothing is more rewarding then the slightly caramelized crust on the top that has just the right amount of texture that makes me swoon! Spice up your creation by adding a surprise at the bottom of the ramekin- lemon curd, chocolate truffle, bitter orange marmalade, or hazelnut praline crunch.

But what gets my egg white induced temper rising is when people feel the need to toss, smash, and mishandle my soufflé, or me for that matter. You spent all this time heating your milk, going to culinary school, weighing out your cornstarch, moving across the country to work for some of the best chefs in the country, whisking it on the stove, coming in on your days off to help out for free, cooling it down, working longer hours because they don’t want to hire more cooks, whipping your egg whites, attending demos and classes to learn so you can better their menu, slowly adding the sugar to create a shiny, stable meringue, saying “yes chef” when you wanted to scream “no chef”, carefully running your thumb on the lip of your ramekin to make sure there is no sticking so that your height it as its optimum, you stay at a job because you’re loyal and not because its good for you, and at last, a towering soufflé is ready to be brought to the table.

That’s right jerk; don’t run in to me, don’t mishandle my plate, and do not even think about making it wait in the window. You may think my temper is short- but you know what? The life span of a soufflé is shorter.

You will commonly hear pastry cooks SCREAMING for runners when a soufflé is about to depart from the mother ship; oven door slightly cracked, towels in hand, bee-line to pass is clear and open, ready for take off- and for good reason. You worked so hard to get it to this point, why wouldn’t you want it to make it all the way to the table. Unfortunately, you can’t take it yourself so you have to hand it off to a server to deliver it safe and sound. The same thing goes for yourself- you want to be delivered safe and sound. When someone tells you that you aren’t worth it, your dessert sucks, or you are going to fail; they are deflating your soufflé that you have been building all this time.

So what do you do?

It is notoriously know that self-motivation is what gets you far. But, yes. You are kicked down enough times it gets harder and harder to get back up and be ready for the next blow. That is when incentive kicks in. Working for someone you really admire, paid vacation, the ability to travel with your job, or just feeling good about your craft when you work at your station. I’ll admit- my soufflé- its’ deflated. I had been doing all the right things- or so I thought. Went to culinary school, worked in some of the best kitchens, worked under amazing chefs and respected the individuals I worked for. But over time, I realized that in my inability to scream when my soufflé is ready to come out of the oven, I have allowed individuals to dictate when I got to the table. So when that server bumps my plate- I need to bump back. When the food runner doesn’t want to pace quickly to the line- I need to speak up- louder. If someone doesn’t see that my hard work and dedication is worth it to them, or someone wants to be a soufflé smasher just because they have to power to do so, then I need to be prepared to move on and not allow myself to collapse.

“SOUFFLE READY!!!!!”

-youngest

The Lemon Duet

Watch the lemon duet how to with Youngest Amanda Rockman.

You can make more than just lemonade with lemons after all...

The Remix

All right stop collaborate and listen

Ice is back with a brand new invention

That’s right folks; I’m talking Italian Ice here. Sure, some Italian or perhaps an Italian wanna be made it up, but you can’t deny it. Freakin’ tasty and light, waddah ya say?

Something grabs a hold of me tightly

Flow like a harpoon daily and nightly

What is the difference you ask? Well, it’s not a sorbet, and it’s not a granita. It’s something in between. Using fresh fruit puree, and a sugar solution of water and sugar you mix the ingredients together and spin it. BUT, unlike sorbet, with its smooth texture, Italian ice has a toothy texture that is attributed to the higher water content.

Will it ever stop yo I don't know

Turn off the lights and I'll glow

So why I am religiously looking for places that have Italian ice? That’s because in the next restaurant my group is opening, my chef wants Italian ice- no, not because his grandfather learned the perfect recipe from his grandfather and it would be an ode to his culture and family. But like most people, including myself, he is a card carrying “I wish I was Italian” kind-of mangacake. (Look it up in urban dictionary…yeah, you’re one too.)

To the extreme I rock a mic like a vandal

Light up a stage and wax a chump like a candle

I hit up Three Aces, Miko’s and some obscure place in NYC- and overall, Miko’s takes the ice. (There is a place on Cicero that is legendary, but I take public transit and pretty sure with the way CTA runs these days, it would take me about 16.74 days to get there, so you know…workin’ on it, sheesh.) Italian Americans seem to gravitate towards this frozen treat, and Chicago is not short of availability. But how do you decipher which ones are the winners and which ones deserved to be whacked by the mafia?

Dance go rush to the speaker that booms

I'm killing your brain like a poisonous mushroom

Things that can wrong are the sugar content and the “icy” levels. Too sweet and you are left with a sugar syrup coating your entire mouth. Too much water and its likes shards of glass in your mouth. If you, by the grace of The Virgin Mary, get your sugar and water levels right, then you are enlightened with the delicious fruit flavor and airy texture that creates the perfect Italian Ice; you would even be accepted into the Family.

Deadly when I play a dope melody

Anything less than the best is a felony

So, how do I hope to achieve such perfection in something so simple yet diabolically easy to muck up? Testing, of course! Certain flavors translate better. Watery fruits generally get a bit muddled, but pungent fruits like lemon, blueberry, and passion fruit pack a punch and leave you to shove your face in the entire cup. (I may or may not have experienced that in real time.)

Love it or leave it you better gain weight

You better hit bull's eye the kid don't play

So look for me come this winter, pulling my hair out till I find the perfect consistency of the most traditional American Italian ice there is, lemon. Perfectly tart yet when mixed with the appropriate amount of sugar has the balance that can cool you off on any Chicago winter day.

If there was a problem yo I'll solve it

Check out the hook while Bitter Chick revolves it

Ice Ice Baby.

Too cold.

The Bristol's Amanda Rockman chosen for 'Top Chef: Just Desserts' season 2 - chicagotribune.com

The Bristol's Amanda Rockman chosen for 'Top Chef: Just Desserts' season 2 - chicagotribune.com

S.O.S.

I’ve done the unthinkable.

I have promised myself that I would never take it this far. But here I am, planning it all out, to cope with what it is that I am giving up despite the fact that I declared that I would stay true to my love and desire.

My love and desire of all things carbohydrates and starches.

It’s unthinkable, I know. But I’m at the end of my rope and I need to see if this will work. You can ask anyone. Even a complete stranger. My ridiculous consumption of carbohydrates and starches are legendary. I have never met a potato that I didn’t like. (Ok once, at a really fancy restaurant to which I will say, “badly done. How can you possible mess that up?!”)

It all started because I have been noticing that as I get older, I get run down quite a bit and seem to have a difficult time rebooting for the next big work day. Yes, I’m not 21 anymore and no, work has not gotten any easier for me over the last 11 years despite my move into glorified management. I need to find a way to feel healthy, light and ready to move my ass. So like every girl with a dream to be fit, have a bathing suit ready body year round with a nice booty, I got myself a personal trainer. And boy is she worth it.

Even working out two days a week wasn’t enough. Yes, more energy, feeling healthier but not the big punch that I need to get me through the next 25 years of working doubles in the kitchen. So, the last resort was to define and alter my eating habits, which was originally off limits for even my trainer to comment on. Upon a three-day, food fest in New York City, my liver, kidney, and stomach all called quits on me. I could not, would not, fit one more string of pasta, French fry, crostini in my mouth for fear that I might actually explode. There is nothing worse that being at Locanda Verde and not being able to enjoy the food for fear of a heart attack at the table. Pretty sure I would not be asked to come back after that.

Something has to change here.

So here it goes, I am going to attempt to go cold turkey. (No pun intended but protein is totally legit) I am going to try my damnest to give up bread, pasta, potato, and eat less of desserts. (That’s my damn livelihood people, don’t you dare be judging me on the less part.) What does less mean you ask? Well instead of eating the whole pie my guy has been instructed to rip that shell out of my hand after two bites or so. Nothing screams commitment than seeing a grown man grabbing a pie from his ol’lady while she yells, “just one more bite, please….I beg you!”. That’s love people, real love.

In attempt to learn more about carb-dairy free pastries, I have done some research. Yes, I will admit I am a cadet in the Anti-vegan Pastry Army; I have the understanding that some individuals do not have the personal luxury of being able to digest wheat, diary, or eggs. It’s those people who do it for the “cool” factor. You can usually spot them with skinny levis that show their ass crack, a sling bag made of hemp that says “Obama Yes we DID”, and an air of self-righteousness surrounding them.

Right, back to the point. I went to check out Babycakes. I vegan-gluten free institution available in both NYC and LA. Erin McKenna was diagnosed in 2004 with a wheat allergy- which I’m sure was a very traumatic event. (Please reference “When Life Gives You Lemons” BCB blog, where youngest get tested for diabetes…scary.) McKenna developed recipes for her gluten deficient pals and as an over achiever, made some of the vegan as well. She uses ingredients like coconut oil, applesauce, agave nectar, and rice milk to give pastries the tenderness, airiness, and flavor as if you were eating one bursting full of wheat and animal dairy flavor. After purchasing a slice of pound cake and a brownie “bite” (boy will not be needed to grab from me since it really is one bite) and lemonade the bill came out to $14.00.

Realizing that going carb and slightly diary pastry free was going to be more expensive than going to that lovely patisserie across the street and getting that slice of gateau basque cake with a caffeine soaked tea would only cost me $6.95, slightly irritated the hell out of me. Perhaps it is true that vegans cannot get upset due to the lack of animal product in their blood stream.

After tasting the pound cake and brownie bite, I was not too disappointed. Granted, it’s a departure from the French pastries I love so dearly, but like I said, I’m making an effort here. I purchased not one but two of her cookbooks with the intention that when I have free time to bake at home (**laugh**) that I would try to use these recipes as a base and work off of them to make tasty and delicious pastries that will not slow me down or put me in cardiac arrest after two bites.

And if that doesn’t work, just look for me at your local restaurant fighting with my man over if that last bite counted as bite one or bite two of the coffee hazelnut budino with latte granita and lemon gelato.

Compliments of Babycake’s Cookbook:

Brownie Gems:

.5 cup fava flour

.25c brown rice flour

.25c potato starch

2T arrowroot

.5cup cocoa powder

2t baking powder

.25t baking soda

.25t xanthan gum

1t salt

.5 cup coconut oil

.3 cup agave nectar

.5 cup applesauce

1T vanilla extract

.5 cup hot water or coffee

Method:

Preheat the oven to 350F. Grease muffin tins with coconut oil.

Mix all the dries together. Mix all the wets together. Mix the wets into the dry and whisk till smooth. Scoop the batter into prepared tin and bake in oven till firm edges with a soft center occur. If mini size- about 14 minutes, for fudgy texture, back for 9 minutes total.) Allow to cool. EAT!

The Chemical Reaction:

Reaction: the transformation of elements from one state to another when they combine usually under various catalysts like pressure, temperature, various concentrations or even being in the same area as one another.

This force is what gives us nuclear weapons, medicines, and that silly tingling feeling when we meet someone we like. Oh right and cakes.

In baking we use various leaveners to assist in giving our cakes lift and an airy delicious crumb. Baking soda reacts with acids to create such a feat while baking powder not only works in your batter but again when you bake it. Yeast is a natural leavening agent that is used in breads and can be found in fresh, active, or active dry. When these are used effectively, these baked goods taste delicious and the texture is even better. But when too much leavener is used your cake or bread or cookie is just one hot mess. The alkalinity of the baking soda leaves a soapy taste that even a Nun wouldn’t wash your mouth out with, and the yeast has produced this over alcohol flavor that sends you to Betty Ford. When not enough is used your pastry is dense, concentrated, and a mimics the appetizing thought of a brick in your mouth.

Chemical reactions are important but need to be kept in check. Careful measuring is necessary and using the proper ingredients that assist in its reaction is key, lemon juice, buttermilk, hot water, and vinegar.

Then there is the chemical reaction between people. It’s that light headed feeling when you are in the presence of someone that usually turns you into a rambling idiot. You find yourself agreeing to the most ridiculous things, becoming this alternate version of yourself that just wont stop giggling. It’s these chemical reactions that at times when not regulated is what gets you in trouble. Days, weeks, months have passed by and you will not notice how much you have changed due to this “chemistry”. Now don’t get me wrong, a certain amount of spark is necessary for every relationship to succeed. But when it is the sole basis of it, my god, you are in so much trouble.

Similar to baking, if too much is present a bad taste in left in your mouth along with the likelihood to combust and just make a huge mess of yourself is definite. If not enough is present you are left sitting there bored out of your mind spending time with someone while thinking of an escape plan. (Will my ass fit thru that window in the bathroom, which goes to the back porch?)

What creates this chemical reaction among people? In the old days, my “elements” always reacted with the super cool hipster guy. (I will pause so you wont throw up in your mouth…..done? ok let’s move on) I don’t know if it was their skinny jeans or extra hair gel that made my electrons swoon but in the end, because yes there was always an end, the chemical reaction would diffuse. I would find myself pondering where had the last three weeks gone? Why am I wearing a vest and high top vans? What the hell was I thinking when I got that tattoo? Were my friends not there to tell me I was acting like a drug induced catch phrase genius Charlie Sheen?

At the end of it all, you get up, pick up your self-respect, reconnect with you brain and get your ass back at home to detox from the chemical overdoes.

But- when you find that beautiful balance of fat, flour, sugar, liquefiers, and your reactive ingredient- pure bliss is what coming out of your oven. As for personal balance- I realized that individuals with sense of self, a sense of humor, and a sense of fashion is what really gets my molecular mojo swooning and alas, a harmony is achieved.

So a lesson to us all; be careful when weighing out your ingredients. But more importantly, be choosy who you allow in your personal recipe- a cake can easily be scraped off the floor- yourself, not so much..

Red Velvet Cupcake:

This cake is well known for its reddish hue color that was created by the reaction of cocoa powder, vinegar and buttermilk. Now and days people use red food coloring to create the ultra red in your face effect but for tradition sake, here’s a recipe the ol’ fashion way:

2.5 cups cake flour

2T cocoa powder

1t salt

1.5 cup sugar

1.5c vegetable oil

2 eggs

1t vanilla extract

1 cup buttermilk

1.5t baking soda

2t white vinegar

zest of 1 orange

Method:

Whisk eggs and sugar in a kitchen aid with a whisk attachment till light and fluffy. Slowly drizzle in your oil. Add vanilla extract and orange zest. Combine the salt, cocoa powder, and cake flour. Alternate adding dry mix with the buttermilk to the egg mixture in three additions. Stir the baking soda into the white vinegar and add at the end. Divide the batter into 24 cupcakes, filling each ¾ full. Bake at 350F, until cake tester comes out clean- about 20 minutes. Allow to cool before icing.

Icing:

8oz butter

12oz cream cheese

1# powdered sugar

.75t vanilla extract

zest of half an orange

Method:

Beat the butter till smooth. Add softened cream cheese and beat till smooth. Add sugar and incorporate. Add flavorings. Pipe a dome on cooled cupcake spread on top and make a “spiky” effect. Or hell, just smoother the whole darn thing with frosting.

Sugar Pusher

(S)Low Country: Youngest and Bucket Cross the Dixie Line:

Now I’m not usually one to talk about how great I am, but I really must say the obvious.

Best. Girlfriend. Ever.

Why you ask? Is it because I cook fabulous meals paired with delicate wines all while wearing nothing but an apron with my five days a week workout body while doing laundry, cleaning the house, and doing the taxes?

Hell no.

I took my boyfriend to New Orleans as a surprise for his birthday.

I know. Best. Girlfriend. Ever.

We had 53 hours in the Big Easy- and we were both on antibiotics due to a case of strep throat. (I KNEW I should not have sat next to that old lady on the bus, but I was tired and thought to myself, “its not like she’s going to give me strep throat or anything…” WRONG!) But when you think about it, going to the land of Bourbon Street, bead necklaces, and jello shots, perhaps being on a strong antibiotic is not such a bad idea.

We arrive, throw our bags into our room (which for some odd reason had a giant bathroom but the tinest bedroom ever), and headed over to Chef Link’s Butcher in the Warehouse district. This tiny establishment offers butchered meats, bar starters, sandwiches, wine, beer, hand-made cocktails (one is called Ms. Piggy goes to New Orleans….um, yes!) and a variety of sweets. I got the pulled BBQ pork with the most kick-ass potato salad, where as Bucket got the muffaletta with house made chips. All very tasty- I will say the potato salad brought home the gold- with grainy mustard, crunchy celery, perfectly seasoned . I do love my starches. But we can’t forget the peanut butter and jelly cookie baked into a muffin mold so it allows the cookie/muffin (?) to have a higher ratio of moist inside to crunchy outside, and the bacon pecan praline. I will say that I don’t love overly-sugary desserts, but that doesn’t mean it stops me from shoving the whole thing in my mouth. With that noted, I must say that this piece of confection got me to appreciate the praline and what it has to offer. (shameless Bristol plug: you can see it on our new dessert menu starting this week!)

Next stop, The French Quarter. Random shops full of boas, freakish face masks, and t-shirts that say “I got bourbon faced on Shit Street” are speckled through the area, while places like Café du Monde, claiming the worlds best beignet (may I please place an emphasis on the word CLAIMING…need I say more), cute antique shops, and voodoo stores abound. I felt completely charmed by NOLA, she had cast her spell on me and I was falling hard. She had me at “would you like your adult beverage to go?”

Now I’m not a huge drinker, but there is something to be said about having the ability, or better yet, the freedom to walk around town consuming my tasty and delicious Manhattan. Yes, perhaps, if we were allowed to do that in Chicago or NYC, it could be an issue- or maybe people would actually be nice one drink deep.

A Mano. This gem in the Warehouse district is serving Italian fare headed by Chef Joshua Smith. Forgoing the meat and fish entrees, Bucket and I decided to carb it up with four pasta dishes. Carbonara, Pici, Buccatini, and Gnudi. Nothing brings me more joy then perfectly made, and then perfectly cooked pasta. If you ever have a chance to make it to A Mano, order two orders of the pici. Trust me, you will want it. Finishing with the traditional and always satisfying affogato, we were on our way to Frenchman Street to listen to some good’ol NOLA jazz.

Now again, as I have mentioned, I’m a humble person, really grounded, I promise. But its just so hard to hold back at this very moment- again.

I had made reservations at Couchon, another Chef Link joint, and when my dearest Bucket and I arrived he found his best friend and wife sitting at our table.

Now say it with me folks. Best. Girlfriend. Ever.

I don’t know which was more thrilling, stalling getting to the restaurant because they were running a bit late, or them hiding in the lobby of the hotel all dressed in black to check into their room as Bucket looked for the coffee, OR how he screamed “Shut the Fuck Up!” when he saw them.

Couchon was an amazing meal. Deviled crab, country style ribs, fried boudin, pickled shrimp, all while having our fair share of whiskey inspired cocktails. Now, what I’m about to share was somewhat disturbing- as I was handed the dessert menu, it was brought to my attention that the Pastry Chef’s name was Rhonda Ruckman- which is freakishly similar to my own name! If, by chance, she was a sister from another mister, I did what every good supporting sis would do- I ordered the entire menu. Banana chocolate pie, Butterscotch pudding, Butter pecan ice cream, and so much more that I am actually proud to admit that I took down during this lunch.

Next on the agenda? Cure. A hip cocktail bar, boasting an excellent cocktail list, small plates and amazing deco to boot. Because we were running late, we had to quickly order one drink per and get on our way to dinner. So I did the most logical thing, close my eyes and point- let the gods decide my beverage fate; apparently I was in their favor that day. Tiki Topiary. A delicious concoction of infused pineapple, ginger, and other exotic flavors balanced with champagne. Did not suck. If I had been granted the time, I would have had many Tikis.

Dinner? Why yes please. John Besh’s August. This is where New Orleans comes to dine fine. A beautiful dining room showcases gemmed chandeliers, curving brick walls, and iron staircases. I just wanted to scream, “and the South will rise again!” But I restrained myself, and ordered the gnocchi with crab and the flounder for my main entrée. Since we were all friends and foodies, naturally we all ordered different things and shared. The food is decadent, bright, and flavorful. The gnocchi was nothing short of pure perfection. Now, I understand that being a pastry chef I am slightly biased, but I am going to make a true statement here. Lean in closer, I’m going to just whisper it. The desserts at August were the best part of the whole damn thing. Pastry Chef Kelly Fields is absolutely amazing- from the flaky pistachio tart, to the goat cheesecake, to the ambrosia salad, to the banana cake. Like every competitive individual who sees something they like within their field that they are very impressed with, one thing came to mind- I hate her. But I realized something as I licked the tart plate clean: I came away from this meal inspired. I love stumbling across someone who I feel kicked my ass in the dessert making section of life. Well done Chef Fields, I hope someday I can repay the favor.

After we peeled off our “adult” clothes and changed into something a bit less restrictive, we headed to d.b.a. to get some local flavor- but alas, the door woman refused to let me in because she thought my ID was a fake. Now hold up here a sec. I would like to state for the record that #1) this is New Orleans where anything is available, hell, girls take their shirts off for an entire week and that’s ok? #2) the people I was with were well over 30, and #3) fuck, I’m almost 30! I was completely shocked- it’s one thing to not be let in because you forgot your ID, but it's another thing to be denied when you are rightfully, legally, allowed to attend this establishment. So d.b.a. was d.o.a., dead on arrival.

I don’t know if it was the beverages to go, but I’m not quite sure where the rest of the night came and went, but the next morning Bucket and I were not in our best form. Being that it was the 51^st hour, we had to pack and head to the airport. I could have spent another 257 hours in NOLA. Someday, I want to see the Garden District, and go to the Jazz museum, and of course, have another Tiki. I am truly glad to see that five years after Katrina, New Orleans is thriving. It is a truly great American city, rich in history, tradition, culture, and beverages to go.

God Bless New Orleans.

-Youngest

aka. Best. Girlfriend. Ever.

Bun in the Oven:

I knew I was in for it as soon as I walked in. On one side of the room there was the “just married” section and across the way was the “married with children” area. Then there was the “me” section. Not married and no children. And I was wearing combat boots. I went straight for the beverages and realized I just downed a “Mom-ito”.

Totally. Screwed.

Yes, I will admit, this was the very first baby shower that I didn’t get out of- claiming I had to work, best friend was in town, got a curious case of dungea fever. But, I am actually excited for this friend to be a mom- so, I got over it and bought that cameo diaper bag and carried it down Chicago Ave.

Now when it comes to babies and me, the two just don’t exactly mix well. I've never had that biological ticking of clock, ohhing and ahhing at baby clothes, tiny shoes, or peach fuzz. I think when I was built they left out a part, hell, perhaps two. (I rarely cry and have been told that perhaps I wasn’t born with tear ducts.) What I will dare to say is that yes, babies are cute at times, and sure, the idea of nurturing a human being, and having oneself be their sole universe for that short period of time before they become an adult, sounds pretty amazing. But then again, so does coffee cake in the morning.

Because I didn’t grow up in a household that preached going out into the world, getting married and procreating- my parents taught me how to work hard- it just feels unnatural for me to want this. So I decided to take things into my own hands- immersion therapy. A good friend of mine was helping her cousin with his one-year-old twins during the summer by taking them to baby camp and asked if I could assist one day. So here it was, Operation: Like Babies.

An hour into this, not only had one of the babies not stopped crying since my arrival, but the other had successfully placed a toy fire truck into her mouth. To which my natural response was “she’s going to be very popular in high school.” My friend was neither impressed nor amused with my antics and I thought for sure I was a failure. Then came the singsong session. I learned two things about myself. One; I don’t know the words to Itsy Bitsy Spider. Two; I can’t do this.

Mall walking home to wash my hands of kid drool, various bacteria that had been passed from one child’s mouth to another’s foot, to the others hair, and so forth and so on, I just didn’t see how I would be able to handle this. I work 65 plus hours a week, I have PERSONAL health insurance which covers nothing, I haven’t put any money into my IRA, and I’m almost 30. Hell, I’m not even married. The idea of caring for an individual and showing them this world that at times does not make any sense to me, and hoping, hell praying, that they come out normal?!

Another friend of mine made a valid comment. He suggested that kids are what you have when you get married because when the years go by you will run out of things to talk about. So, it’s a boredom issue? Yes, being with someone for 40 plus years is a long time. It’s a lifetime! But to have children just to fill the time, and hope that your significant other won’t bore the death out of you first, just seems ethically wrong.

I’ve learned the lesson to never say never; so I will not say that I will never have a child willingly. I do believe that it will take more time, and perhaps an extremely understanding wants to stay home with the kids while mom works on her empire and occasionally gets tipsy with her girlfriends, kind of dad.

But to the wonderful friend who is having her first child this week- I am so very happy because I know that you are going to be a wonderful, nurturing, kick-ass mom who will raise her child with a keen sense of self and awesome taste in music.

And I can’t wait to give that kid a sugar high with cakes and cookies and then hand him back to her!

-Youngest

Hot-Cross Bun:

250g-bread flour

250g all-purpose flour

125g warm water

125g warm milk

5g dried yeast

10g salt

50g sugar

1 egg

59g butter

100g dried currants

Zest of one orange

1t cinnamon

Method:

Mix the flours, yeast, salt, and sugar with the dough hook. Add your water, milk, butter, and egg till comes together. Add you orange, currants, and cinnamon and mix till a smooth consistency.

Place in bowl with plastic wrap on top and allow to double in size.

Knock down dough and cut into 8 pieces. Roll into balls and place on to floured tabletop and place damp towel on top. Allow to double in size.

Mix 100g water with 50g flour and pipe a cross on top of the buns. Place into a 400F oven and bake until golden brown.

Melt some apricot jam with a touch of water and glaze when they come out of the oven.

Eldest Strikes Back

It’s been awhile since I, Eldest, have written anything for Bitter Chick. I could make excuses as to why, but who needs to hear it. All that matters is, the sabbatical is over.

Eldest is back.

And, my mouth is full of lots of spicy things to say.

Get ready.

Bake On, My Fellow Man.

Never Say Never

At times I contemplate where this idea originated. Perhaps, long ago in a land far far away a bigger boned chef had a restaurant that wasn't doing so great anymore. He was focused on the fact that just a mere six weeks ago his restaurant was packed; why the sudden change? He walked out of his establishment to see across the street, another restaurant packed to the gills. He walks in to see a tall and slender chef in the pass, slinging plates as fast as he can, with the authority of a ballerina. This larger chef turned around and slowly went back to his kitchen grabbed a tub of marshmallow fluff and ate the entire contents of it's jar before moving on to the sticks of butter. The following day he inquired about this new chef, asking all the towns people, wanting to know what his speciality was, where he came from, all the juicy gossip. It wasn't until his waitress mentioned how dashing and fit he looked and how was it possible that he tasted everything that came thru his kitchen without gaining so much weight. That fat bastard of a chef took hold of that and the saying "never trust a skinny chef" was born.

I can't begin to tell how many times I have been told this from patrons, individuals I meet in social settings, family member gatherings. My personal favorite was during a kitchen tour at the restaurant where I worked, and the four top would stop by my pastry station after consuming their 27 courses of pure butter, cream, and foie gras, their jolly cheeks red from drinking too much wine would say " how can you be this skinny, well you know what they say!?" Giggling all along thinking that they were the smartest people in the world for coming into this kitchen and relaying this to me. My perfect answer was usually something to the effect of " well, that bout of bulimia really helps..." and then excuse myself so I can go throw up that piece of bread I consumed four hours ago.

What these individuals are unaware of is the fact that I had to get my hungover ass out of bed at nine am to be at work by ten to prep all their food for the 8 pm rerservation, and no, I didn't have time to stop and eat for family meal and no, I won't get out work till 2 am at which time no respectable place to eat is open, and so you weigh your options and decide to have a liquid diet of Johnny Walker instead. Even better, the fact I made 85 dollars a day, before taxes, one could rarely afford decent food after rent, phone bill, public transportation, and a liver killing drinking habit. I relish in the idea that they believe that the owners of these establishments are feeding us course after succulent course of rich food before service while keeping a 30% food cost?!

The other side of the coin is lets say I was a bigger boned chef. Does that mean you can trust me that I know what I'm doing? How about trusting me with your children, perhaps your retirement fund? I would gladly pack on a few pounds if that was all it took.

It wasn't until I finished reading Bourdain's Medium Raw that I felt my lean ass chapped. And over one little line, one little insignificant line that I'm sure he didn't mean any harm. But, it did cause me harm. He was relaying to the general and not so general public that one needs to be able to move their ass when they work in a kitchen. Picking up 50 pounds of flour and carrying it up a flight of stairs, being chased by other cooks trying to not get towel slapped, or during service the twist and turns to open your low boy, get in the oven, run downstairs for the backup of sabayon. In brief, this job is physical. And Bourdain is correct in saying that if you can't walk up a flight of stairs without being put on a respirator, the kitchen should not be your first choice. But where he went wrong was to imply that you could still be a pastry chef then. Badly done Mr. Bourdain. Which hurts me to say since I respect the hell out of you. You are the Che of the Cooks Revolution, how could you turn on me? Therefore, I invite you to work with me for the week and tell me if you still feel that this is true.

What it really boils down to is your training, where you have worked, and your pride in your food. I could care less if that chef is big or small, short or tall, even a red head. If they put their soul into their cuisine, then who is to say we can't trust them?

Side note: I am proud to announce the formation of NAASC. ( National Association of the Advancement of Skinny Chefs) Please feel free to donate in large unmarked bills.

Thank you.

xoxo-

Youngest

Fellow Bitter Chicks, Happy VD! Not sure if there is a cream for that, but when in doubt, chocolate is the answer!

Dough Hoe.

Call to Arms

Now, I realize that every job has it's bullshit. The grass is never EVER greener as a matter of fact. But, what gets under my skin and wiggles it's way to my brain, infecting all molecules of my being is the fact that pastry chefs are deemed: the line cook who couldn't make it, dough-hoes, sugar fairy, the working individuals that are the after thought despite the fact that their food brings in revenue with generally a 3-11% food cost and really folks, it is the last thing the guests puts in their mouths. So it better be fucking good, or they are gong to bitch about it to everyone.

This nagging feeling has only gotten stronger over the last few years. I suppose, in the beginning I didn't care if the line cooks made fun of me. I usually showed up before them and left way after. But, because I made lollipops and pretty souffles with edible flowers, that makes me incapable of being a respected cook? Even better, I recall in my earlier fine dining days that the guys would say pastry girls were always the easiest to score with. Hell, they even had bets going. But only after a few weeks and me threatening to pour hard crack sugar all over their face I quickly received the nickname "ice queen". (that's 310F of boiling hot sugar asshole)

Pastry chefs and cooks are incredibly organized, obsessive, creative, masochistic, imaginative with color and structure, and they put up with an incredible amount of bullshit. Oh, and a lot of them are as angry as you can get. You would think with the amount of sugar that we consume, we would be the happiest people to walk this earth. I wouldn't put it past a few of them to snorting pixie sticks for the sugar high. We spend all day making cake layers, later to be soaked with pear liquor making sure it's evenly distributed along the cake; not to make it soggy and fall apart but to ensure its moist and flavorful. Next is the gelee. Beautiful Anjou pears that have been peeled, small diced and sautéed with lemon juice, vanilla and butter then added to a pear purée with just the right amount of gelatin to allow it to set up in the entremet but not to be used as a floatation device. You patiently allow that to cool before adding it to your frame to ensure that your cake layer doesn't absorb it all and royally muck up your cake. Delicately ladeling your gelee on top of the cake layer you allow it to set. Carefully placing another vanilla sponge pressing lightly to ensure it sticks, another application of pear liquor syrup. A milk chocolate cardamom mousse is made, whip cream gently being folded in then evenly portioned and leveled off the cake, another layer of sponge, another application of pear liqour syrup. Finally, a pear bavarian piped on top to create a ripple event to be frozen then sprayed with white chocolate to give a velvet effect. Beautiful, bursting with delicious delicate flavor. Then in a blink of an eye, some cook in a hurry rams a sheet pan on top of your gorgeous cake therefore runing it, and wasting the X amount of time and the X amount of product spent to make it. And you wonder why I'm so fucking angry?

I once had someone ask me " don't you get bored?" well, I'm sure a brain surgeon after a few thousand surgeries is thinking " right, another brain." but this is our profession, not a hobby. Sure, at times when at the hotel, I would scream in my head, another ton of cookie dough? "Quick, I'm going to lie on the sheeter and just press the red button. Goodbye cruel mean world!!" But alas I pull my shit together, straighten my chef jacket and realize that there are a million things one can do with baking and pastry. Allow me to take you on a lyrical montage; plated desserts, catering, petite fours, wedding cakes, sugar work, chocolate and confections, cupcakes, ice cream, breads, breakfast pastries, cookies, the list is endless and alas, I'm hungry and in need of a sugar fix.

What I'm asking for is not absurd. Fellow line cooks, general managers, owners, and head chefs, I can not embellish more on the fact that your pastry cooks want the same future as your much beloved hot line soldiers. We too want our own establishments, we too want to have cookbooks and be on Food and Wine top ten chefs in the country. ( which I still have yet to subscribe to since they completely disregard pastry chefs as "top chefs"). I understand that we only make up a certain percentage of the menu, but have you looked in a kitchen lately? Most kitchens have up to seven line cooks producing perhaps three to five dishes a cook. And then you have that one stressed out, running around like an idiot pastry person, or if you're lucky, two, having to produce their entire menu, brunch items, give aways, petite fours, banquet items, bread, all while creating new dishes. A sad team of one. On the flip side, after a long day is over, that pastry person can feel nothing but pure brilliance in their craft, that they have made it another day and if nothing got ruined or burned or "lost in the walk in", kicked some major ass.

In an attempt to find solace in all this I look to pastry chefs that inspire me. The Emily Luchettis, Claudia Flemmings, Tim and Elizabeth Dahls, Gale Gands, Jacqes Torres ( because he is french its hard for me to really feel for him since it's really his birthright to be a pastry god), Norman Loves, and Mindy Segals that made it for themselves and gave pastry disciples like myself something to look forward too. These individuals stuck by their craft, and didn't feel the pressure to switch sides. Or perhaps they did, but stuck to what they believed. We belong to a tribe of individuals who relish in the patience and practice of baking and pastry. We embellish plates with various percentages of chocolate from single origin beans telling you a story of delicate yet robust flavors. We sastify your want, your NEED, of lucious flaky pastry that have been layered with blocks of European butter. We sing you to sleep with bags of currant pate fruit and cannelles warm in your hand. That is what I think of when I get tired, or frustrated, or wonder if all this work, all this training, all this time is worth it?

So I call to my fellow pastry warriors: let's make a promise to ourselves and to our craft that we will stick by it no matter what the recession tells us, that we will go forth and train other warriors the CORRECT way to make desserts, breads, and confections, to keep this profession alive and well. And as God as my witness, order that second dessert because, honey, it's your duty.

Eye Candy

I sit there on that micro suede tan couch. Don't look at it I tell myself. Calmly reach over for the remote. Don't even think about it, Youngest. Scroll thru the million channels of reality television, infomercials, and bad supposedly funny sitcoms. Then I catch myself eyeing it. That overflowing, shiny glossy wrapper, filled with type 2 diabetes confections.

The candy bowl.

(First I was like to damn my old roommate for having this grandma inclination of having the candy bowl in the house and no less, in view when sitting on the couch. Damn you woman.)

Blackout.

I slowly open my eyes to see what is around me. Ravaged torn cellophane littered all around me, dark smears of chocolate on my fingers. What have I've done?!! Then picking myself up from my high fructose corn syrup high, I question myself. How could I have let this happen?

You see, temptation is a bitch.

Its that sleek dress that is just a bit over your price range, it's that tall, tattooed, guy staring at you like you were the cherry on top of a sundae, its the yeah, you can have one more drink then get home before waking up in four hours to go to work, it's the 80 dollar supplement for white truffles on your pasta.

Temptation is what evokes you to make choices based on your senses, not common sense. Its what catches you off guard to think... Could I? Should I? By all means, not all temptation ends in your complete demise leaving you to a life of ruin, compromised morals and wearing a scarlet T around your neck. (Except for Ms. Hester Prynne: not only did her hypocritical minister boyfriend deny his love for her but condemned her to all of the towns folk. He didn’t deserve her body and soul, he deserved the clap. Thank you Nathaniel Hawthorne for teaching us the grim future of touching a man of the cloth.)

What is comes down to is, is it worth it?

Will that dress be out of season in a month? Hell, if it's a bit too small it would be best to just put it back on that hanger where it belongs. Yes, that ridiculously attractive hipster may feed into your want to be dazzled about punk bands, muddle sticks, flannel shirts, various types of skinny jeans, and handle bar mustaches but are they going to love and support you when you are acting like a raging bitch? Do you really need another drink since you are already slurring at the bartender, lost your wallet, and you really do need to be at your best tomorrow. As far as the Alba white truffles are concerned, yes, they are worth it. Every time.

Let's return to the candy bowl shall we. Chocolate concoctions of caramel, peanuts, and chocolate sound amazing and seemingly feed the hungry sugar beast inside you. But what it doesn't accomplish is the satisfaction of true flavor and texture. Along side the incapable ability they have to fulfill your need, they are packaged in tiny little nuggets almost taunting you that oh, it's merely a bite, yes, take another, take thirty. And once you wake up in a cold sweat, demanding another machine create square, you know you have a problem. It's not like these confections are the best available, let's say Laduree Parisian macaroons from Paris, Havanna dolce de leche cookies from Buenos Aires, or Jacques Torres fresh squeezed lemonade 70% hand cut chocolates. Now you would be doing yourself a disservice if you didn't indulge yourself in such hand crafted perfections.

The moral of the story? Keep that damn candy bowl away from me, you evil devilish woman.

-Youngest