Dorothy Kalin's:: The Kitchen Whisperers

A book review (posted to Goodreads dot com)

I fell in love with this book, especially the concept of the book, right away. I cook with lots of wonderful voices in the kitchen - both grandmothers (Coca Cola Cake and Lamb Stew on one side, Lemon Meringue pie and Chicken Croquettes on the other), my mom, good friends, Mrs. Child - of course, the brilliant chefs I've worked with, TV chefs who want to draw us in and get us moving and the quiet cookbook writers and stylists who offer their best.

They all seem to want to engage with us so we try new things, to go beyond our self-imposed borders and experience the wonders of the kitchen, the market, the table. At some point in the book, and it may have been too early on, Ms. Kalin's voice went from collaborative and encouraging to showcasing. Her Kitchen Whisperers are the chefs, the magazine editors and the stylists with whom she collaborated. Somehow, rather than drawing us in, she seemed to have drawn a line - a sort of "us and you" line I found off-putting. She makes a statement about a chef whose new kitchen isn't completed and he brings an amazing meal to the table with two toaster ovens and a hot plate. Brilliant! Wonderful! Exciting! Tell me more, tell me how. Instead, she goes on to comment, "In most chef's kitchens, and especially in most high-end non-chef's kitchens, you'll find a row of shiny appliances that signify mastery to the Williams Sonoma crowd but in reality only telegraph a quick Amazon trigger finger. (Just because they're there doesn't meant they're used, or used well.)" Ouch. There is this unnecessary defense of expertise. I'd prefer she acknowledge the heritage of home cooking - the inspiration, the doing, showing, trying, sharing. It's food! If someone with limited experience gets their hands dirty by using shiny appliances and gadgets, hooray! They're in the kitchen. 

I will say this, the book is staying in my kitchen. It was passed along by my dear friend Michelle - who is a fabulous cook and one of my Whisperers. I assumed I'd read it and pass it along, but I can't! It's FULL of sticky notes, full of ideas for the hours I'll spend at the farmers market and then in the kitchen. (I do wish she'd indexed all the non-recipe recipes!)

This is a good book but sadly, Kalins managed to separate, perhaps unintentionally, the reader and her accomplished associates, when she could have sidled up next to us and become our Kitchen Whisperer.

This knife.

My son gave me Alton Brown's new book: Everyday Cook. It's great. Chock full of good ideas. But I got stuck, joyously, on the page with all the things he uses to get where he wants to go. Like Binder clips. It's about the second or third page. I've been peeking and then surfing to see if I have what I need. Mostly I do, but I upgraded a knife so far. (Not the one pictured.) And I have perused the interwebs for some of his recommendations.

Alton certainly said it loudest, or to the biggest audience, but I have almost always held that point of view -- everything in my kitchen should have more than one function. No gadgety gadgets for me. Years and years ago when I went to cooking school, friends and family loaded me up with this and that. All intended to make the kitchen easy and fun and what I found was that I didn't really end up using all of it. I'm fall-over grateful for every consideration, I just didn't use some of the pieces. I shared a bunch and kept a few. An example of one I don't really need? Turkey forks.  They look smart, but really, you use them once or perhaps twice a year when you make a turkey. And my dear, dear friend Jemma, who loves the Joy of Cooking, method for turkey (me too!) reminds me, you just need a couple of paper towels. I still have my Turkey forks. I use 'em, but you get that they live rent free in the kitchen all year.

My son, who loves all things Alton, gave me the Original Bear Claw pulled pork shredders for those days when I have no forks available. Ha. I got the joke right after I opened the package. He was quite proud of himself. (They turned out to have more than one application and one is actually a garden application.)

What I love is a well-considered tool. Like the knife you see in the picture. It was the first I bought, about a day after the introductory meeting at UCLA for my professional cooking course. I was so excited. And decided to be slow and careful to only buy knives I need. Really good knives and really serviceable knives. So this one had my name on it. An 8" Zwilling JA Henckels Chef's knife. About a week later I bought a 4" paring knife, then a boning knife. These were my companions and made it into my knife bag which went with me just about everywhere I went. (In my car. Is that legal?) I was thrilled, then, and am now, to have the tools of the trade in my hand.
I'm reading a book about a girl completely dedicated to cooking great food -- Kitchen of the Great Midwest by J. Ryan Stradal. And I'm reminded of how cooking is always new, with portent of magic and good problem-solving, just around the corner.

My knife, that should never have doubled as an opener for a lid of some kind, reminded me of that, too.

Just like writing, I'm called back onto my path.

I choose writing.

I pondered.
I'm writing.

It's just too sweet to consider and lay down a strings of words as they become one thread to another. An idea, a thought, a story.

Today I chose someone else's writing. Here's a wonderful string of words, ideas, actions that will end up a tasty plate for you.

So here is David Leobovitz's fabby way to roast tomatoes.

This is my before picture:

If I showed you the after picture, you'd want to eat them and you can't because they went so fast it would make your head spin. They were sprinkled with a little mineral salt, thyme and chopped garlic before they hit the oven.

My friend Claudia found Kumato tomatoes at the 99 cent store. (Those are the dark green/brown faces amid the reds.) They are super delicious. So there's your start. Go make them! Report back.

I'm a better cook because I letter

As I've mentioned quite a few times here, I'm enjoying a Sketchbookery class. This week, beyond making a sketchbook or two, we had demonstrations and lots of ideas around lettering. Pam Garrison showed some calligraphy methods. Here's a look at one of her fun designs:

Pam Garrison's wonderful art.

You can find more of her work around the net. But I say, start here.  

The lettering she demoed was similar to this style: 

To see the real lettering you're just going to have to take the class. Take the class!

It's a simple direction. Light on the upstroke, press down on the down stroke. Simple. And so confusing. Especially if you're trying to write in a lettering font style the same way you actually write. I find that I get ahead of myself and the simple instruction confuzzles me rather dramatically. 

So, I stopped. 

And looked at the video again and noticed that she was going slow. Slow. Enjoying the practice of getting the letters onto the paper. (For us to learn.)

I don't know if she goes slow when she's home alone in her art studio. But she demonstrated slow for us chimps in class and I had one of two rather brilliant AH HA! experiences today: Slow allows space for creating. It invites time to just be time which we can take to do what we truly love or want to learn or practice, etcetera, etcetera.

I slowed down and even decided to break the pattern of "trying" and zipping through. (Oh my gosh I know this so well. Why did I forget? When I was seriously working out violin passages all those days ago I went slow, slow, slow before I ever went fast. I know this in my bones.)

I made myself create the upstrokes and downstrokes separately -- breaking the writing pattern and they looked much closer to the demo.

Muscle memory is good. 

I remembered slow. 

And applied it. 

It was fun.

Then I returned to my comfortable artistic home, cooking, and made my kiddos their favorite Saturday Apple Dumplings. 

Taking time. 

Enjoying slow. 

And they really were more lovely than ever. 

Inspiration: a clove

After making breakfast, (a new take on scrambled eggs, low and slow with a spot of water and pepper), I found this bit of deliciousness sitting in my windowsill.

I immediately began the rumination on what it might become. Pesto? Scampi? I have basil. I have shrimp.

And then I started thinking about how much eating and drinking versatility comes with a little bud like this.

Since I moved into this adventures-of-cooking-life, I'm not sure much time has ever passed without the effect of garlic and its aromatic flavor in my cooking or dining. Garlic is transitive. It steps into your pan and changes everything around it, including the very air. What strength, what power and then, what joy.

It made me consider the short list:
Chicken, roasted, pan seared, baked or barbecued
A salad dressing
Broccoli
Cauliflower
Any pasta sauce
Any reduction, in fact
Rubbed on the steak
Stuck into the roast - the lamb, the beef
With every wine
With every citrus
In French, Italian, and Mexican styles

All good. Not so with oatmeal though. But then again, neither is cilantro.
I'll be happy to see where it goes today.

And I'll let you know. What is your favorite taste with garlic?

Ahh, the Bergamot

Like many, many people my only understanding of the Bergamot was some essential oil memory. An oil sold with the likes of Patchouili oil. It had something to do either with hippies or massage therapists.

Thankfully, life provides experiences (and a  foraging neighbor) so my understanding has been refined.

Stick with me here.

In the early 2000s, a lovely gardening man I worked with, used to bring small vases of Freesia into my office in winter. At first I just thought they were beautiful. Over time, I realized that they were beautiful and fragrant and drove me to want a cup of tea. And, as my unintentional explorations led, I found my desire fulfilled in Earl Grey. I've become quite an Earl Grey connoisseur, I enjoy the subtler, not to perfumey types and I like the hint of Bergamot. (See how we came full circle - wait there's more).

I was content with my tea and freesia experiences. Then this summer my friend, the foraging friend, introduced me to a beautiful line of pure and delicious olive oils. They are tres special. The way the olives are harvested and crushed makes for a very complete flavor. Garlic is crushed with the olives (for the garlic olive oil) rather than garlic oils being added to the olive oil. No infusion. Full on flavor marriage. You can learn about the oils here. I'm never going back!

In the end, the flavors hold up in cooking or preparations really well and that pleases me.

One day, I was looking at the Bergamot label and was truly surprised to learn that Bergamot isn't extracted from actual hippies, but from the Bergamot, a citrus fruit grown in Calabria, Italy or perhaps France.

Finally, yesterday, Mary handed me an actual Bergamot from one from her travels. Yes, it looks like a lemon and your knowledge of citrus has probably made your mouth water as if to smell or taste the sour. But the fragrance is intense and beautiful and clean and freesia like.

I have to cut into it and taste it. It's said to be more bitter than the grapefruit, which seems impossible with its beautiful scent. I plan, however to wait. I want to leave it on the counter in my kitchen and breath in all the aroma this beauty has to offer.

Celebrating Disappointment.

I've heard of cooking a turkey in a trash can. Sadly, my tale is about the turkey that hit the trash can, good night!

Last night, the intrepid, mama de cuisine, headed for the kitchen with great gusto. I'd planned my weekly menu (thank you for the inspiration Kerry!) and was prepared to, well, prepare. I made a beautiful kale salad (credit to Joan) to be used in the coming days (the juice of half an orange and olive oil along with some unsweetened and dried cranberries mingle well). Started a pot of Pasta Fagioli (thanks to my friend Alice and her recipe) while I got the potatoes on the boil and a head of Romanesco tossed in lemon and olive oil and into the oven.

The easy part was supposed to be the Trader Joe's Turkey Breast with cranberry stuffing. It wasn't. While the mashers were wonderful, the Romanesco brocolli tenderly roasted and browning, the turkey was a bust. I'm adept with turkey. (I've been on a quest for perfectly tender turkey and found a couple of different perfectly delicious ways.) I didn't see this one coming, however. It's sold as a rolled and stuffed breast wrapped in an elasticized net to hold it together. We're supposed to cook it in a 350 oven for 20 minutes per pound. Following the directions I stuck my insta-read in and it came out a beautiful 160 degrees. Unfortunately, that was just the outer turkey meat. The inside meat, when cut was a nice pink. Ok, not so nice. Clearly, this style of stuffed breast should have cooked lower and slower.

It ended up in my trash can. I'm all too aware of how salmonella works and also, not the least bit willing to serve dried out turkey breast (which was only going to get drier going back in the oven). A sad sigh follows.

All was not lost though. Leftover chicken found it's way into a subtle turkey gravy I was playing with from the drippings, some stock and vermouth. It was yummy over the potatoes. And the nice man at Trader Joe's is going to provide a refund for my trouble. (He was aghast to hear about the instruction trouble.)

It was a learning experience and a nice save.
I can celebrate the disappointment.
It's a good thing.

The first day of Kid's Color Week, hosted by Kerry at Young Ones, is RED. Here's my girlie's contribution: a rather salmony red S.

It happens that today is also a big birthday at our house. The young missy turned eleven which shocks me just a little. It seems moments ago we were on our way to the hospital for the whole two and a half hours of labor this little one afforded us. Now she's singing to Justin Bieber songs and excited about a family gathering to celebrate her special day at the California Pizza Kitchen.

We make a spectacle of birthdays at our house. Stars are hung in the bedroom hallway door and have been since the big boy man turned one.

The birthday sign goes up and you start the morning wearing the birthday hat as you open cards. Tradition. Fun.

There will be cupcakes at school and that promised dinner with our friends, who really are our family. Her big bro has tucked a pair of earrings in a box and put them on the front seat of my car. This means she'll find them after school. I think he's an awesome big brother and even though they can fight with great passion and a tone that shakes me to the core, they have the shape of best of friends in their thoughtful hearts. Evidence? He went into Justice for Girls to shop with his dad. He never mentioned how mortified he'd have been if any of the girls from school came in. He just soaked it up when she squealed over the JB T-shirt.

So our red day is also a pink and green happy day. As we celebrate the birthday of the baby.

Brisk and random

Today, I'm considering several thoughts, in no particular order:

• I found a lovely blog, lovely experience of a blog, wherein the writer suggests that comments might just detract from the freedom of just being at the blog site and enjoying. As much as I love the connection in comments, I believe I love this idea for myself.
• It's heading toward 10 in the morning, we're all home for Easter break, and waiting for the washing machine repair man. No one has moved out of jammies. We often spend this time of year in San Francisco. So I guess this is vacation. There will be some mad scramble when the doorbell rings.
• I love having the backdoor open to the high 50's cool. It creates a little draft that reminds me that spring looks delicate with all the floral blooming. But spring is not tame.
• My German Shepherd discovered a yellow hand squeezer-thing which made its way into our house. It is the focus of his existence and we just watched him sit, staring up at the mantle where it sat waiting for it to do something for 10 minutes. I love focus.
• I watched Mario Batalli make a salad of raw shredded asparagus (he used a tomato or potato peeler) in olive oil, lemon, and parmesan reggiano. I was not able to tell, from Matt Lauer's face or comments, if it was tasty and now I want to try it. I may hold some baby romaine on the side just in case it falls flat with my staff here. He made a super yummy looking pasta dish too.

There you go. Brisk and random.
That's what's on my mind.

Belief

When I graduated from the Professional Cooking program at UCLA, I was thrilled to consider applying my refined, as well as newly found, culinary skills. I'd mastered duck and dacquoise. I'd also had a brilliant pistol of a teacher, Cecilia d'Castro. Cecilia worked with Wolfgang Puck in his Ma Maison days and taught us from a "new from old" perspective. Everything comes from French Cooking. And new ideas come brilliantly by relying on old methods but certainly not being bound by them.
Shortly after that graduation, my mom mentioned to a friend (who happened to be the wife of a fabulous chef with his own restaurant) that I'd graduated. No one could have been more happy for and excited about this accomplishment. Mom never really mustered too much exuberance for the kitchen. She loved the idea that I'd connected to this aspect of family history. So on the day she mentioned my accomplishment to Amy, Amy mentioned right back that her husband, Steve, needed a pastry chef and quickly. They were about to open their second restaurant. 
A minor crunch presented: In my romantic mind, I was ready to leave the world of clients and strategies and commercial shoots and trips to New York behind, for the world of batter and finish. Playing in the kitchen sounded a thousand times more wonderful than anything I could imagine. Even First Class on American Airlines with make-your-own-sundaes, silverware and mimosas. I ran into reality though, when I ran the numbers. A pastry chef, especially the I-just-graduated-from-culinary-school type only makes single-digit-an-hour numbers. This is quite different than Advertising Executive money. You can live on Ad Exec money. You can even shop when in New York and drive a late model car. But pastry chef money barely pays the rent, even if you live in a rent-controlled apartment. I ran the numbers over and over and found out that it doesn't really matter how many times you run numbers. Numbers are true to themselves and their order. I fretted. A romantic and perfect dream was about to be pulverized by reality. And then a week or two went by and I struggled with another reality. I loved my strategy, client, collaborate, go-get-‘em world. In the midst, the best reality presented. The chef didn't really need a full-time pastry chef for the new restaurant. He just needed one on Friday and Saturday nights. Really? Really? I could just add this fabulous, wonderful, thing that I loved into my life and stay up 'til way past midnight in the kitchen? I was in. In and ready. I trained with the full-time pastry chef for a month one night a week and picked up her methods for the chocolate ganache, the deep dish chocolate pecan pie, the soufflés. It was more than exciting. I loved the mix of precision and flourish. And I loved, loved, loved being one of the kitchen staff. They were incredible. Individual, hard working and officially chefs. Every last one of them.
As time went on I proved my capacity to follow and perform. The chef sent me off to work for his wonderful younger brother, the Sous Chef who became the Chef de Cuisine at the new restaurant. Life was grand. I worked all week at my agency job and then on the occasional Friday and every Saturday, donned my chef whites and went off to do the joyful work.
In early fall, Chef Steven White, having been acknowledged by the California Restaurant Writers Association, was asked to cook at the James Beard Foundation in New York City. He planned a beautiful dinner with a nod to the essence of French creation including the Beggars Purse and meringues with strawberry coulis. He was taking his brother, Carlos, to assist him and when I noticed I, too, had to join a client in New York that very week, I offered my services. The week, the experience, the picture of cooking with these two talented men in James Beard's kitchen (and Dean and Deluca's basement) is the stuff I dream about. Before, during and after. I stood next to both Steven and Carlos as they were being congratulated for the beautiful dinner and delicious dessert. And I contributed. Prepping and cooking fruit, baking meringues and plating a Pavlova-like dish that was completely beautiful.
The inspiration, that day, was in the Chef's belief in me as a member of his team. He left me for hours in that basement kitchen, prepping. And he coughed out orders to me, just as he did his very experienced brother, as we prepared each plate for the invitees. It didn't really dawn on me that I might be a liability to this man until we were in the crunch of finishing plates. A moment when the best chef can be filled with self-doubt. Rather than wonder if I could cook, I looked into this Chef's face and saw that I was his pastry chef. An assistant of value with work to do. A contributor.
I learned a valuable truth that summer's night: There is great encouragement in belief.

Check out Cecilia's cooking school:

www.academyofculinaryeducation.com