I am embarrassed to admit that I had a major of a breakdown last night. I knew that come morning I’d have to remove my bandages and clean The Wound and I was really, really, really not looking forward to it. I sobbed hysterically and got really carried away with my self-pity party. The dreaded moment arrived and was not as bad as I’d built it up to be, so my apologies to my mister who had to suffer through my hysterics. As you can see below I had a little emergency room all set up in my bathroom – and don’t you think I did an excellent job of bandaging my hand?

I had a little accident yesterday. While coring a cauliflower, it slipped and the knife I was holding slashed open the webbed part between my thumb and the rest of my hand. It all happened very quickly, and I was only able to see what had happened for a very brief moment. It was almost like a camera, blinking its shutter open only to capture one essential and fleeting moment. That quick look revealed more than enough, however, because the image is firmly rooted in my mind’s eye – a piece of raw, bloody steak peeking out from underneath my skin. It was quite shocking; I shrieked and then everything started to go dark. My blood pressure dropped and I nearle fainted. Normally I seek cheap thrills in the form of horror movies and medical programs, but I suppose perception changes when you are the bloody victim.

My mister answered my distress call and I had him wrap my hand in paper towel and duct tape and off we went to the emergency room. It took two hours for a doctor to see me…ample time for the bandage a nurse had wrapped around me to dry and crust itself onto my cut. I was still queasy and dizzy, in addition to freaking out about possible nerve and/or tendon damage, so you can imagine how much I was dreading peeling off the bandage and looking at The Wound once again. But I did it, and hard though I tried to keep myself together, I yelped and nearly tossed my cookies again. It was so…meaty.

I went home high as a kite on Percocet with seven stitches and a splint to keep my thumb from moving. I went to bed with visions of the stitches bursting open revealing once again The Wound.

No pictures, unfortunately. Even in my distraught state I considered taking the camera along, but it just didn’t happen. I’m supposed to remove the bandage tomorrow – God help me: it is, of course, glued to the blood that seeped out through the crochet job I have on there – and if I don’t faint I’ll try to document the proceeding. Hopefully there will be no meat.

WARNING: The following post is rated “R” for graphic images of a slaughtered farm animal.

This Halloween we received an unexpected treat: a whole hog. No joke. The animal was wheeled into the kitchen on a cart – à la patient in ER – plopped on the table, and promptly cut up into pieces. It was strange, seeing that whole animal there…It looked plastic and lifeless – obviously lifeless, the thing was dead, but what I mean is it appeared as if it had never ever been a walking, snorting thing.

Anyhow, despite the photos you’ll see below, butchering was not a cruel, self-indulging experiment but a necessary learning experience. As a matter of fact, I wish we had something to cut up every day. I mean, haven’t you ever found yourself at the supermarket staring blankly at shrink-wrapped hunks of meat with names that are utterly meaningless and misleading? For instance, did you know that pork butt isn’t the pig’s rear at all but a portion of its shoulder? I bet you didn’t, but now you’ve been enlightened.

Enough small talk – you may proceed to the ghoulish gallery:

I made an apple tart on Thursday and I felt a whole lot better about everything. Apple tarts are very soothing. They should change that well-known saying to “An apple tart a day keeps the doctor way.” Also, I’ve been interning at a catering company and worked my first event on Saturday night – all went smoothly and I have thus regained some confidence. Perfect timing, too, as I was swimming much too close to the deep end.

In other news, some of my classmates’ true colors have begun to shine through and they are not very flattering hues. Stereotypical tempestuous chefs in the making! Beware! Part of today’s assignment was to make fresh noodles certain pasta machines weren’t cooperating. One guy took this inanimate object’s offense quite personally and he became quite violent with it. One second the thing was attached to the counter and the next it was on the floor while its crank was in the hand of the raging perpetrator. Dismembered kitchen appliances. Oh the horror!

Speaking of horrors… The fish du jour was flounder and there were a couple extra leftover at the end of class so my partner was charged with filleting one of them. I was standing by and the gutting was going on as normal when all of a sudden a rather outsized “gut” was pulled out. It was quite unusual – larger than an egg sac and firmer. Filled with morbid curiosity, I asked my partner to “Just cut the thing open! Let’s see what’s inside!” It was the fish’s final repast! It was an actual whole fish inside the flounder! Like a man condemned to death, it had devoured one last meal! It was grotesque, now that I think about it. Too bad I didn’t have my camera today. I would have loved to share the gore with you.

Our culinary curriculum allowed us a few days of pastry and I loved it oh-so-much. Various times I caught myself staring distractedly at the doughs and creams we whipped up wondering, “Did I make the right decision by going culinary rather than pastry?” Don’t think I’m flaky — no pun intended! — it’s just that pastry is a very methodical art and I find the exactness of the process incredibly soothing and gratifying.

We made pâte feuilletée, numerous sweet and savory soufflés, fritters, mousse, cream puffs… Admittedly, I overindulged and was craving lamb shank and ribeye on soufflé day, but still, pastry was glorious. Here are a few photos of what I made:

Oh. My. God. I am tired. Exhausted. Fatigued. Cansadísima.
I started an internship – or “stage,” if we are to utilize the correct mot français– on Thursday night, at a chichi French eatery. Having been treated to a special birthday lunch there by the mister, it was my first choice when it came time to apply for an internship. It is magnifique! The food is très délicieux! A splendid treat for the eyes and palate! And of course, working there is nothing at all like dining there.

There is no chef, nor sous-chef, there at the moment, the former having departed to start his own chichi place and the latter – not sure, but the point is he’s not there anymore. In a way, this is good because I’ll probably get to do more than peel potatoes. Even with no one at the helm the menu remains intact and the dishes continue to amaze and delight but at the same time, the disorder is perceptible, even to a novice.

I decided to do a double-shift on Saturday, which meant a 16-hour day. It was too much, but my reasoning was that I should be there early to do some prep work and stay late to experience the dinner rush. Now I see that my reasoning was folly, but now I feel like I can’t back out. I don’t like to be that person who says “I’m tired, I can’t do this.” So I have to suck it up, right? I can do it, right? Right?

P.S.
I made crêpes Suzette and beignets aux pommes (apple fritters) today and they scrumdiddilyumptuous!

I’ve been absent for a few days, but with good reason! I had several tests in the span of a few days and I needed to study. But now I am back and eager to share what I’ve been eating – errr, I mean, preparing. Since the lobster episode, we’ve made a number of tasty meals at school – suprême de caneton sautée et cuisse braisée à l’orange (sautéed duck breast with braised duck legs and orange sauce), poulet sauté chasseur (sautéed chicken, hunter style), poulet rôti grand-mère (roasted chicken, grandmother style), contre-filet grillé / sauce choron (grilled strip with a béarnaise-like sauce), to name a few.

It’s been a veritable smorgasbord of meats and butter, and yes my friends, potatoes once more! I’ve been trying to eat small portions, but regardless of the efforts, I confess: I eat all day long. The most piggy of my days was the day we had the contre-filet with the sauce choron…and fries. I had, aside from the steak, eaten a grilled chicken preparation earlier in the day. It was delicious and I ate a full plate. In an attempt at daintiness, I vowed not to eat the steak, but failed miserably. I ate the whole steak. And the potatoes.

Now for the kicker: When I got home that afternoon, my mister, in an attempt at satiating my constant craving for read meat, had a piece of skirt steak waiting. I sighed, gulped, and quickly reviewed my options. Rather than politely declining to eat meat, or anything else for that matter, I decided to not be a sissy and do the right thing: MAKE BEARNAISE FOR THE STEAK.

Admittedly, I had been making up excuses not to attempt to make the beastly béarnaise after the previous debacle, but this was my chance to redeem myself.

And I did! I successfully made the sauce. Encore you say? We’ll see…

High Heels & Frijoles

It was Miss Scarlet, in the kitchen, with a knife.

I exaggerate. It was a lot less fraught than I’m making it out to be. But a live creature was in fact sacrificed and I wielded the weapon: Homarus americanus, aka, lobster. Did I feel bad? I’m sorry to admit that I did not feel an ounce of pity for the thing. I dug in the knife and that was that. Even now I’m thinking back to the moment and I got nothin’. Zip. Zero. Nada.

Anyway, the lobster cooking process was quite the production. I won’t even get into it because it’s ridiculous. It was also ridiculously delicious, but seriously, this is not something you want to try at home. Especially if stabbing something is too dastardly a deed for you to stomach.

Does shucking clams and oysters also count as murder? Because I did some of that, too. I’m a serial killer…

By the way, whomever was the first person to decide you could eat bivalve mollusks must have been famished because it was labor-intense work to pry those little suckers open. I managed a few blue points and two clams and decided that, like homarus up there, they’re better eaten in the comfort of a restaurant. Let someone else do the grunt work I say.

High Heels & Frijoles

Last week in school we devoted two days to fish. We prepared round fish and flat fish in a number of ways and it was extremely rewarding to start with a whole fish and end with a snazzy presentation.

So impressed was I by one of the preparations that I made it last Sunday as a special treat to dazzle my mister (I know, I know – I still have to tackle beastly béarnaise. Soon, I promise!). I started writing this post a few days ago and had the full intention of writing down step-by-step the instructions to make “poisson en papillote,” however, what began as a simple how-to quickly evolved – or devolved rather – into a three-volume novel. So I tossed it – well, actually, most of it is saved and if anyone would like the recipe, jus ask – and decided instead to do an illustrated guide to poisson en papillote. Click here to check out the 54 photos that comprise the recipe. Let me know what you think.

High Heels & Frijoles

Today was Potato Day, and what a day it was. I must have consumed at least 7 kilos of potatoes and 8 liters of butter. (Note: I’m trying really hard to use the metric system as all school recipes come in that format. That’s about 15 lbs. of potatoes and 33 cups of butter). By the end of it all, I was ready to wave my white flag. Turns out it’s true that one can have too much of a good thing.

We started with your basic pommes purée, then moved on to pommes duchesse, followed by pommes dauphinois, pommes Anna, pommes sautées à cru, and finally pommes gaufrette. Chef warned us about pacing ourselves – I guess there have been other Tuber Gluttons before us – but it is doubtful that anyone heeded his advice. I certainly did not, and by 10:15am I had consumed my first preparation (needed more butter).

Pommes duchesse (the pretty piped ones you find on your plate at a fancy restaurant, or at the farthest end of the spectrum, in a TV or airplane dinner) were next. They were rather lovely to look at but not much in the way of taste. Butter, you say? Alas, no. Duchesse is more about presentation. If you add butter the mix won’t be stiff enough to pipe out through your pastry bag. (I ate a few of my toasty pipings anyway).

Pommes dauphinois: Thinly slice peeled potatoes with a mandoline. Toss in bowl with cream + milk + minced garlic + nutmeg + S&P. Place mix in buttered pan, simmer on stovetop, and continue to cook in the oven. When the potatoes are almost done, sprinkle top with gruyère + butter and brown. Sounds good, right? It was.

By this point I was feeling a bit full, but Potato Day comes only once in blue moon and I was going to see it through…or eat it through.

Pommes Anna were extremely pretty and very, very tasty. The sautées à cru so-so, but po-tay-to, poh-tah-to, I like them both.

FINALLY – pommes gaufrette, aka waffle fries. Golden delicious goodies that were perfectly crispy and delicate. Or as a classmate so poetically put it: “These are just like Ruffles.”

High Heels & Frijoles