Around the corner from my Belltown crib was a sketchy pizza joint. Right behind the statue of Chief Seattle. The kind of place where pictures of every famous Italian-American blend un-seamlessly with cheap prints of gondolas and the Coliseum. Run by the worst sort of owner, the kind who frequently appears on Kitchen Nightmares blaming the staff for his failure while GR digs rotten chicken out of the walk-in. The manager was a dead-ringer for Sly Stallone in the first Rocky, before surgery prettied him up. A few drops of sweat were always right at the end of his nose ready to season the food. I ate there once and got food poisoning which should have been an indicator that I never wanted to get behind THAT line, but for a few weeks one summer when I needed some work, I caved to the perpetual "Help Wanted" sign and joined the ranks of the rotten sauce that dwelled therein.
There is a painting of a small bouquet of purple flowers next to the vanity in Barbara Sinatra's bathroom. They are in a vase tied with a ribbon with a sky blue background. It's inscription, in tiny crooked letters, reads "to BAS love FAS"
4th of July reminds me of beach. Beach reminds me of Malibu. Malibu reminds me of living in Frank Sinatra's house.
Let me say that again in case your jaw didn't drop and you didn't get a little impressed. I lived in Frank-to-tha-mother-effing-Sinatra's house. Cooked for his widow. An ant moves a rubber tree plant.
I spent a snowy spring driving back and forth between Pilchuck Glass School, where I was cooking and my apartment in West Seattle where I catered Friday night shabbat for the Jew Crew, when an unexpected turn in the love department sent me reeling. A certain smug son-of-a-biscuit-eater named MICHAEL DAVID NELSON (waiter/glassblower, fuck yeah, I name names) told me I was a loser who would "stay trapped in her room forever" waiting for him. Really dude? I threw aside ten years of hard work, clients and friends and went running back to LA. Trapped in a room to be sure, but a fancy-ass one with an ocean view and a charge account at Hows where the mangoes cost $6.99 and NO ONE EVEN CARES.
I never realized the clout the name Sinatra carries until I told people where I worked. I was pretty punk rock and even though we've all heard the songs, celebrities were all the same to me. I didn't realize they have their own caste system and Ol' Blue Eyes is plunked right on the top of that heap. Even in death. Chairman of the Board for a reason, yo.
Me and the Mrs. had a routine.
When she woke up she buzzed me.
A trip down the leopard print staircase to the living room and the monster steel shades that covered the house would be lifted, the stereo flipped on with disc after disc of Guess-Who ready to go. She listened to him all day long, the sound of his voice keeping him close to her, I suppose. Imagine the greatest crooner in history singing to you daily in that magic voice. Then imagine it drowning slowly in a sea of dementia and despair until it is silenced altogether. You couldn't blame her for wanting to hear it. Except for the fact that it drove you apeshit after the third day.
After the newspapers were gathered and the dogs let out for the walker to pick up, a Martha sort of moment would occur with oats and berries and hot lemon water on white porcelain and I would wait at the foot of her bed until she decided what she wanted for lunch. There was no menu planning with Mrs. S. If she said she felt like a Honey Baked Ham, then you enjoyed the hour and back drive down the coast to Santa Monica to get the lady her hunk of meat. I assure you, they have twenty different places in Malibu to get some damned ham, but it needs to be cooked on the bone, natch and she likey their cranberry mustard. She would eat 2 whole slices before tiring of the taste and I would be forcing it on Hector and Eva the rest of the week.
Sometime after lunch she would hip me to her evening plans and I would either be back in the car in search of something special or I'd be loading up my tray with snacks from the larder for a big night in front of the TV. For reals. A larder. Have you seen one? It's a huge thing that looks like a pantry, but is humidity controlled. Built just for them to keep their cut onions wrapped in paper towels so they wouldn't lose their taste. Not kidding. I have never seen another one and I've been in a lot of fancy kitchens.
Five o'clock was crudite and cocktails. "Mr. S's Martini" Extra dirty. Of course. Forever a reminder that no matter who we are, the same three ingredients make up our mixed drinks. It's a good lesson and one of which I'm sure the Chairman would approve. A few slices of carrot, radish, jicama. Overpriced heirloom tomatoes. I don't know how much Hows makes off their produce markups, but dollars to doughnuts that man is driving his Murcielago down PCH with a hooker right now.
On the nights that she didn't go out, she'd bring her tray out by the beach and have me keep her company for a bit. Am I in a movie? I don't know, is Danny DeVito next door having drinks with Robert DeNiro?
Getting relationship advice from this dame was incredible. The best, paraphrased, amounts to "if you marry a cheater, instead of throwing his ass out, do your hair, put on make-up, cook him dinner and remind him why he wants to come home to you instead of that ho'". Maybe a little fifties, but I now appreciate the sentiment as a married woman with furniture I would not want to have to split up.
One afternoon she came down to the kitchen to show me how to make pasta Mr. S's mom's way. The sacred Dolly. Who taught her son, who taught his wife who was about to teach me. It seemed very special and Italian and I am sure there are restaurant owners in Jersey who would weep at the chance to experience a cooking lesson in this particular kitchen.
I've eaten a lot of noodles, I've made quite a few. I've had them fresh from the masters, in sauces of truffle and caviar. But Frank Sinatra's pasta sounded like the angels might be carrying that recipe card around in a gilded frame and I was lucky enough to be there for that heralding, that day.
She took off her rock of a ring, started pouring flour into a pile on the counter and instructed me in her stock method. Not my favorite. I don't think a boiled raw chicken, carrot and onion are going to get you anywhere but Ireland and who the hell eats THAT food? But I did it. I was drooling in anticipation. This was FRANK'S FAVORITE after all, it was bound to be the most italian-y pasta-y best thing ever. God, I get my hopes up easily.
We rolled out the dough, hand-cutting scraggly long noodles, dropped them into simmering chicken stock, and fished them out a minute later. Tossed with butter and parmesan, they were the most disgusting noodles I have ever eaten.
If you Google Mrs. S, you will read many shitty things written by his daughters and jealous ex-girlfriends. Things that suggest she didn't love him, that she kept him away from his friends, that she was a gold-digger who somehow facilitated his death by not getting him the care he needed.
I would argue that the painting on the wall tells a better story about their love than these attempts to slander. I would say after living in the palace for awhile and getting to know Frank from the vibe of those who loved him, that he was a king on this earth. And I can unequivocally swear, 100 percent, without a doubt, that the best pasta I've ever had, was from that guido in Seattle with the sweat dripping off his nose.
Guido Pasta or what I call, STOP WITH THAT FUCKING BECHAMEL PLEASE.
Boil, cook, drain a pound of pasta. Whatever your kid doesn't have a fit over.
Melt half a stick of butter in a pan, saute a big clove of chopped garlic for 30 seconds, add a pint of whipping cream.
When it starts to break, add noodles and stir around for a minute.
As it starts to simmer add a cup of grated parmesan.
Stir around again to emulsify.
Add bacon iffen there happens to be any cooked laying around.
Tons of pepper, little salt b/c of cheese.
Eat it now. Right now. Don't do anything else. Especially don't consider the fat content. Next time make twice as much, because you won't want to share.
Friday, July 1, 2011
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
99 Bosses. Half Ass Monkey Boy.
Does it smell like pot in here?
When I stepped off the elevator at the Egypt, I was hit by the scent of Arcata. If you don't know what that means, why are you reading this? Are you secretly hoping I might still turn out to be the swimsuit model with the same name which is why the search term you used to find me was "marisa miller sitting toilet"? You are a creepy pervert.
What I mean is that I smelled weed. Not the kind I was used to getting on the corner of 9th and Union that you spend an hour picking stems out of. Pine trees and skunk spray. That's what heaven smells like. It was a strong enough odor that I wanted to linger, wallowing in the waft I had missed so much, but didn't want to seem like a total tard in front of Kris. I already wore enough chambray to make me questionable. Hey. Gap Rebirth. Whatever. The girls here were rocking Courtney. I didn't know who Courtney was, so I rocked Melissa Etheridge. I had a lot to learn about being straight in Seattle.
Kris proceeded down the hall and the smell grew stronger with every step. She stopped at the very last apartment and knocked. The door was opened by a pointy-bearded boy in a wool hat. Inside were three or four fellers in various homage to Bilbo Baggins. Basketball was on the TV. And oh. There was also a cloud of pot smoke the size of the Icelandic volcano choking up the room.
Mama's home.
.
Introductions are in the form of Kris pointing out who's who. "That's Sean Clay. He lives off girls" is the one that will forever stand out in my mind and it is to him that I dedicate this blog post.
Then Kris asks if I wanted a bong hit. Does a bear drive a bicycle in the woods on Christmas?
If you are a chef and a connoisseur of the cannabis, the difference between, say, a crisp, clean Snowcap and schwag is the difference between CAFO burger and Wagyu rib-eye, the miles that separate Toll-House from Callebaut. I would happily and easily trade sex for the rest of my life for a greenhouse full of Jack Herer . Sorry. Just keepin' it real.
One long-haired shiftless boy leads to another and next thing you know, I'm agreeing to jobs at the bakery! jobs for all my new friends! Except the two residents of the apt. who had their own gig growing the weed I was smoking. In one of those houses you've read about. With a hundred pot plants. Working for the Lord I say.
I stumbled back to the hill and, like Dorothy, woke up to the Emerald City.
When I stepped off the elevator at the Egypt, I was hit by the scent of Arcata. If you don't know what that means, why are you reading this? Are you secretly hoping I might still turn out to be the swimsuit model with the same name which is why the search term you used to find me was "marisa miller sitting toilet"? You are a creepy pervert.
What I mean is that I smelled weed. Not the kind I was used to getting on the corner of 9th and Union that you spend an hour picking stems out of. Pine trees and skunk spray. That's what heaven smells like. It was a strong enough odor that I wanted to linger, wallowing in the waft I had missed so much, but didn't want to seem like a total tard in front of Kris. I already wore enough chambray to make me questionable. Hey. Gap Rebirth. Whatever. The girls here were rocking Courtney. I didn't know who Courtney was, so I rocked Melissa Etheridge. I had a lot to learn about being straight in Seattle.
Kris proceeded down the hall and the smell grew stronger with every step. She stopped at the very last apartment and knocked. The door was opened by a pointy-bearded boy in a wool hat. Inside were three or four fellers in various homage to Bilbo Baggins. Basketball was on the TV. And oh. There was also a cloud of pot smoke the size of the Icelandic volcano choking up the room.
Mama's home.
.
Introductions are in the form of Kris pointing out who's who. "That's Sean Clay. He lives off girls" is the one that will forever stand out in my mind and it is to him that I dedicate this blog post.
Then Kris asks if I wanted a bong hit. Does a bear drive a bicycle in the woods on Christmas?
If you are a chef and a connoisseur of the cannabis, the difference between, say, a crisp, clean Snowcap and schwag is the difference between CAFO burger and Wagyu rib-eye, the miles that separate Toll-House from Callebaut. I would happily and easily trade sex for the rest of my life for a greenhouse full of Jack Herer . Sorry. Just keepin' it real.
One long-haired shiftless boy leads to another and next thing you know, I'm agreeing to jobs at the bakery! jobs for all my new friends! Except the two residents of the apt. who had their own gig growing the weed I was smoking. In one of those houses you've read about. With a hundred pot plants. Working for the Lord I say.
I stumbled back to the hill and, like Dorothy, woke up to the Emerald City.
Sunday, June 12, 2011
99 Bosses. Temple of the (hot)Dog. Part One
Best thing about living in Seattle in 1992?
Living in Seattle in 1992.
Like Hammer said before Eddie Vedder did a stage dive all over his lame pants: CAN'T TOUCH THIS.
Come on.
What's better than Nirvana 6 feet away and the bulge in Chris Cornell's leather pants THISCLOSEUP?
More inspiring than a rebirth of food that starts with freshly harvested oysters and ends with an herbal elixir picked moments before at the Herbfarm?
In 1992, however, I knew not.
I went all-in that October leaving LA and I crawled right back into my hermit shell as soon as I parked my Celica on 28th Ave. E.
Time after work was spent trying to get my bearings straight. It's hard as nuts to figure out how to navigate a city bisected by lakes, drawbridges and one-way streets. Nothing was flat and there were mountains and water on all sides so my habit of finding the geographical landmarks to determine my general direction was pretty much kerflunkled.
Having never lived anywhere but California. I couldn't believe the lack of trash, both paper and Euro. LA was teeming with Armani-clad wanna-bees. These people were dressed like HOBBITS for Jesus sake. Long-johns, pointy-toed Doc Martens, flannels and sheep-lined corduroy. All varieties of goatee and the boys all had longer hair than the girls. I was kind of skeeved out to be honest. I like my shizz a little tighter than that.
Marky Mark? Seems showered. These boys looked like if you showed them soap they'd melt all Wicked Witch-style. Up close, it turns out, they smell like Aveda Curessence. All that hair is a lot of maintenance.
After 3 months as pantry girl, Joan promotes me to manager of the bakery and I go apeshit.
Giddy with power, I embark on a hiring spree of miscreants, who, now that I know better, must have all crawled in from the Off-Ramp for their 11 o'clock interviews. I should have known that maybe their grooming would reflect their inability to take anything seriously, least of all their paychecks. This is a crack in the bong of the 24 year-old Seattle male. If you want that money for weed and Heineken son, you need a job. THAT YOU GO TO. EVERY DAY LIKE.
First on the list, Miss Kristin Rock-ass. A pretty Goth with a wicked sense of humor who had recently transplanted from the Bay Area. Cali in da' house. I felt better already.
Late every day but overlooked since she is the only one who gets my cultural references and need to get a good burrito in this city. This was a long time before Taco del Mar and the only Mexican was a weird place in the market where the carnitas was all wet. Taco Time doesn't count so shut it.
I find out that the reason for Kris's tardiness is that she's taking two buses to get to work so I give her a ride home one day.
The Egypt, in it's heyday, is a super-nice condo bldg. in Wallingford. Long before Belltown started sucking Regentrify's shiny new pecker, there were few luxury apts. in Seattle. Luxury meaning covered parking and an elevator to get all your shit up to the third floor when you moved in with that guy you met at the Vomit on Tuesday night.
Let me break in here and tell the eleven of you who haven't heard the news that I am a pot-head.
Before you form any smarmy, uneducated opinions as to MY intelligence let me remind you that most of you drink your weight in wine, vodka or Diet Coke every week.
Go 'head Sally, keep sucking down that poison you're so fond of. You'll never lose that gut no matter how many spin classes you take. You will start to get puffy, blotchy skin. Let's not talk about your liver.
I decided long ago that a plant that I can grow out of the ground beats the Jesus out of any mystery medicine the government or China may or may not be trying to kill you with. And yes, grapes are a plant, but setting up a vineyard is cost-prohibitive to an extent and there's still the whole swollen organ factor.
With no ganja hook-up in my new hometown, the 8 long months pre-Rockas were spent drinking Hefeweizen loaded with lemon and playing dominoes with my roommates. On the weekends I went mushroom hunting outside Everett trying to find a reasonable substitute for my preferred vice, never imagining that the biggest cash crop in Western Washington isn't really apples after all.
Now. Let's go upstairs and meet the boyfriend, shall we?
Living in Seattle in 1992.
Like Hammer said before Eddie Vedder did a stage dive all over his lame pants: CAN'T TOUCH THIS.
Come on.
What's better than Nirvana 6 feet away and the bulge in Chris Cornell's leather pants THISCLOSEUP?
More inspiring than a rebirth of food that starts with freshly harvested oysters and ends with an herbal elixir picked moments before at the Herbfarm?
In 1992, however, I knew not.
I went all-in that October leaving LA and I crawled right back into my hermit shell as soon as I parked my Celica on 28th Ave. E.
Time after work was spent trying to get my bearings straight. It's hard as nuts to figure out how to navigate a city bisected by lakes, drawbridges and one-way streets. Nothing was flat and there were mountains and water on all sides so my habit of finding the geographical landmarks to determine my general direction was pretty much kerflunkled.
Having never lived anywhere but California. I couldn't believe the lack of trash, both paper and Euro. LA was teeming with Armani-clad wanna-bees. These people were dressed like HOBBITS for Jesus sake. Long-johns, pointy-toed Doc Martens, flannels and sheep-lined corduroy. All varieties of goatee and the boys all had longer hair than the girls. I was kind of skeeved out to be honest. I like my shizz a little tighter than that.
Marky Mark? Seems showered. These boys looked like if you showed them soap they'd melt all Wicked Witch-style. Up close, it turns out, they smell like Aveda Curessence. All that hair is a lot of maintenance.
After 3 months as pantry girl, Joan promotes me to manager of the bakery and I go apeshit.
Giddy with power, I embark on a hiring spree of miscreants, who, now that I know better, must have all crawled in from the Off-Ramp for their 11 o'clock interviews. I should have known that maybe their grooming would reflect their inability to take anything seriously, least of all their paychecks. This is a crack in the bong of the 24 year-old Seattle male. If you want that money for weed and Heineken son, you need a job. THAT YOU GO TO. EVERY DAY LIKE.
First on the list, Miss Kristin Rock-ass. A pretty Goth with a wicked sense of humor who had recently transplanted from the Bay Area. Cali in da' house. I felt better already.
Late every day but overlooked since she is the only one who gets my cultural references and need to get a good burrito in this city. This was a long time before Taco del Mar and the only Mexican was a weird place in the market where the carnitas was all wet. Taco Time doesn't count so shut it.
I find out that the reason for Kris's tardiness is that she's taking two buses to get to work so I give her a ride home one day.
The Egypt, in it's heyday, is a super-nice condo bldg. in Wallingford. Long before Belltown started sucking Regentrify's shiny new pecker, there were few luxury apts. in Seattle. Luxury meaning covered parking and an elevator to get all your shit up to the third floor when you moved in with that guy you met at the Vomit on Tuesday night.
Let me break in here and tell the eleven of you who haven't heard the news that I am a pot-head.
Before you form any smarmy, uneducated opinions as to MY intelligence let me remind you that most of you drink your weight in wine, vodka or Diet Coke every week.
Go 'head Sally, keep sucking down that poison you're so fond of. You'll never lose that gut no matter how many spin classes you take. You will start to get puffy, blotchy skin. Let's not talk about your liver.
I decided long ago that a plant that I can grow out of the ground beats the Jesus out of any mystery medicine the government or China may or may not be trying to kill you with. And yes, grapes are a plant, but setting up a vineyard is cost-prohibitive to an extent and there's still the whole swollen organ factor.
With no ganja hook-up in my new hometown, the 8 long months pre-Rockas were spent drinking Hefeweizen loaded with lemon and playing dominoes with my roommates. On the weekends I went mushroom hunting outside Everett trying to find a reasonable substitute for my preferred vice, never imagining that the biggest cash crop in Western Washington isn't really apples after all.
Now. Let's go upstairs and meet the boyfriend, shall we?
Monday, May 16, 2011
99 Bosses. A Retrospective.
I made my big move into the glamorous world of food prep at A La Francaise Bakery in 1992. Total accident. Cooking didn't occur to me because none of the restaurants I had hostessed in had anything besides a group of derelict creep-outs behind the line.
My roommate worked at the Francaise and was forever bringing home the spoils. It really was a great bakery. The owner had spent a fuckload of her dr. husband's money to make sure they turned out authentic European bread and pastry and there were walk-in ovens and an astonishing number of tiny Asian people cranking out croissants by the hundreds. XLC (that is Shell-Sea for those of us not born with retarded hippie parents) would bring home boxes of pizzas and cinnamon rolls as big as a baby's head. The former bulimic in me was intrigued.
I don't like to share and since there were three other people in the house and Paul didn't work, he'd be right up the basement stairs as soon as he heard the garage door open. If I was lucky, when I got home I'd get a few cookies and maybe a sourdough bear or turtle.
Something needed to be done.
As luck would have, not many people enjoy the idea of getting up at 4 am to go to work. Even in Seattle, where early morning is a Port of Call fantasy, it's a challenge for a business owner to find RESPECTABLE people to be awake at the crack of dawn. It is 1992 after all and no one is not seeing every single band every single night. The only people qualified to serve your coffee and scones are at the Hurricane or Beth's already.
Except me. We had only just moved there and so weekends were spent oblivious to the Pearl Jam around me. Josh Taft, their video director and friend lived right across the street for Jesus sake and I had no idea who those dweebuses in long johns and shorts were, I just thought their outfits were funny.
I was ready when XLC asked me if I wanted to replace someone who had decided sleeping until 6am was a God-given right and quit unexpectedly.Visions of caramel danced in my head as I said Yes. Yes I would.
Wouldn't you know, three weeks into slapping down tomatoes and chiffonading basil, I was a mutha-effing, well, maybe not cook exactly, but I was a pantry superstar .
Except for sandwiches.
I was, and still am, an abject failure as a deli spokesman. If you don't know what you want on your fucking sandwich after 40 years on this planet, then how are you qualified for anything, really? Should you be allowed to have children if you aren't sure if yellow or Dijon is your thing? You do have to teach children to make decisions, you know, and maybe we could back the fuck off the federal government because it ain't John Boehner eliciting that vacant stare when asked if you want a pickle with that. Please do not torture your sandwich maker with this nonsense. Those are, in fact, daggers they are shooting at you while they hate themselves for not going to college.
Now. At the time, the bakery was in a building on 1st and Jackson that also housed the Mariners baseball corporation and a little known coffee company. Name of Starbucks. Maybe you've heard.
The president of this small chain of coffee shops was working like crazy to expand his business and part of his deal was he wanted food. He wanted scones and he wanted muffins and he wanted my boss to be the lady to make them so he was forever coming downstairs to pilfer a croissant or moan about our Torrefazione and how it was inferior. He was like Jerry Seinfeld, except there was no Jerry Seinfeld yet, there was only this j-hole making my life hell at least once a day.
And the worst was his sandwich. Turkey-bacon. Which is supposed to have cranberry cream cheese. Since that's what is on the menu and we get a specific amount of whipped cream cheese, all of it gets mixed with the cranberries. It's just the way it is. I didn't make that rule for fuck sake. But here we go again.
"Hi Howard, how are you today"
"Stupendous, fantastic, high as the sky in an elephant's eye" some shit like that. He's a real Tony Robbins sort of fellow.
"Turkey bacon?"
"Yes. And plain cream cheese. Whipped" and we're off.
Because you do not tell the president of the biggest growing empire in Seattle that he cannot have what he wants, the eleven people in line waiting for their cranberry cream cheese are now going to have to wait even longer while I haul out the Kitchen-Aid, squeeze 3 packets of Philly into it and whip it with some cream until it's fluffy enough for the master. I ask Joan repeatedly why I can't just reserve some since there is always someone who asks. She says she doesn't want to have to make nice for everyone. She's actually gone through my reach-in to check and make sure I'm not disobeying. This is my first experience with the chef-owner relationship. The chef wants to do things the logical, easy way, and the owner wants to do it in the fashion of a rich idiot who has no real life experience to base running a business on.
I do not remember the particulars about this day. I'm sure it was drizzling, I'm sure that the lunch rush had started off slow, a pizza here and there, maybe a super-wet half-caff for some dumb biddy who had it the one time she went to Paris and now tortures XLC everyday if it isn't EXACTLY how she remembers it. It was probably like that. But it must have been Mercury or whatever planet governs the world of food because I could just not get the ratio of cream cheese to bread right for Mistuh and I had run out of packets.
Each time I would bring it out and hand it to him he would unwrap it from the parchment. lift up the top slice and shake his head.
I had had it. Had it.
I had not been in a real kitchen yet, so I didn't know that cooks have ways of dealing with customers who are less than complimentary. If you've seen Fight Club. Yes. Sorry.
All I had was my mouth. Which is loud. And prone to swearing.
And so, my friends, I did not realize that when I was screaming "Cocksucker" at the top of my lungs next to the dishwasher that was running, and, I assumed, covering up the noise, that the president of the biggest coffee company in the whole world heard every word of it.
You would think I might have been fired. I was promoted to manager. Good help is hard to find.
There is a beautiful moment of irony 10 years later when I am BBQing for the Schultz-man on the dock of his dear friends the Fleischmanns. Private chef beats the Jesus out of sandwich-ho.
These are the cookies we made at the bakery and they are the ones you pay a dollar for at Starbucks. Make a batch for that same dollar. Howard doesn't need your money.
1 1/2 cups oats,
1/2 cup AP flour
1/4 tsp. each soda and powder
pinch salt
1/2 cup brown sugar
1/2 cup light sugar
1 large egg, room temp
tsp. vanilla
6 Tbsp. butter softened
1/2 tsp. cinnamon
3/4 cup raisins
Butter, sugar, then vanilla, then egg. Mix dry and add. Chill.
325 for 12 minutes
Non-cynical baking blog brought to you by my fetus. My evil is slippin' yo.
My roommate worked at the Francaise and was forever bringing home the spoils. It really was a great bakery. The owner had spent a fuckload of her dr. husband's money to make sure they turned out authentic European bread and pastry and there were walk-in ovens and an astonishing number of tiny Asian people cranking out croissants by the hundreds. XLC (that is Shell-Sea for those of us not born with retarded hippie parents) would bring home boxes of pizzas and cinnamon rolls as big as a baby's head. The former bulimic in me was intrigued.
I don't like to share and since there were three other people in the house and Paul didn't work, he'd be right up the basement stairs as soon as he heard the garage door open. If I was lucky, when I got home I'd get a few cookies and maybe a sourdough bear or turtle.
Something needed to be done.
As luck would have, not many people enjoy the idea of getting up at 4 am to go to work. Even in Seattle, where early morning is a Port of Call fantasy, it's a challenge for a business owner to find RESPECTABLE people to be awake at the crack of dawn. It is 1992 after all and no one is not seeing every single band every single night. The only people qualified to serve your coffee and scones are at the Hurricane or Beth's already.
Except me. We had only just moved there and so weekends were spent oblivious to the Pearl Jam around me. Josh Taft, their video director and friend lived right across the street for Jesus sake and I had no idea who those dweebuses in long johns and shorts were, I just thought their outfits were funny.
I was ready when XLC asked me if I wanted to replace someone who had decided sleeping until 6am was a God-given right and quit unexpectedly.Visions of caramel danced in my head as I said Yes. Yes I would.
Wouldn't you know, three weeks into slapping down tomatoes and chiffonading basil, I was a mutha-effing, well, maybe not cook exactly, but I was a pantry superstar .
Except for sandwiches.
I was, and still am, an abject failure as a deli spokesman. If you don't know what you want on your fucking sandwich after 40 years on this planet, then how are you qualified for anything, really? Should you be allowed to have children if you aren't sure if yellow or Dijon is your thing? You do have to teach children to make decisions, you know, and maybe we could back the fuck off the federal government because it ain't John Boehner eliciting that vacant stare when asked if you want a pickle with that. Please do not torture your sandwich maker with this nonsense. Those are, in fact, daggers they are shooting at you while they hate themselves for not going to college.
Now. At the time, the bakery was in a building on 1st and Jackson that also housed the Mariners baseball corporation and a little known coffee company. Name of Starbucks. Maybe you've heard.
The president of this small chain of coffee shops was working like crazy to expand his business and part of his deal was he wanted food. He wanted scones and he wanted muffins and he wanted my boss to be the lady to make them so he was forever coming downstairs to pilfer a croissant or moan about our Torrefazione and how it was inferior. He was like Jerry Seinfeld, except there was no Jerry Seinfeld yet, there was only this j-hole making my life hell at least once a day.
And the worst was his sandwich. Turkey-bacon. Which is supposed to have cranberry cream cheese. Since that's what is on the menu and we get a specific amount of whipped cream cheese, all of it gets mixed with the cranberries. It's just the way it is. I didn't make that rule for fuck sake. But here we go again.
"Hi Howard, how are you today"
"Stupendous, fantastic, high as the sky in an elephant's eye" some shit like that. He's a real Tony Robbins sort of fellow.
"Turkey bacon?"
"Yes. And plain cream cheese. Whipped" and we're off.
Because you do not tell the president of the biggest growing empire in Seattle that he cannot have what he wants, the eleven people in line waiting for their cranberry cream cheese are now going to have to wait even longer while I haul out the Kitchen-Aid, squeeze 3 packets of Philly into it and whip it with some cream until it's fluffy enough for the master. I ask Joan repeatedly why I can't just reserve some since there is always someone who asks. She says she doesn't want to have to make nice for everyone. She's actually gone through my reach-in to check and make sure I'm not disobeying. This is my first experience with the chef-owner relationship. The chef wants to do things the logical, easy way, and the owner wants to do it in the fashion of a rich idiot who has no real life experience to base running a business on.
I do not remember the particulars about this day. I'm sure it was drizzling, I'm sure that the lunch rush had started off slow, a pizza here and there, maybe a super-wet half-caff for some dumb biddy who had it the one time she went to Paris and now tortures XLC everyday if it isn't EXACTLY how she remembers it. It was probably like that. But it must have been Mercury or whatever planet governs the world of food because I could just not get the ratio of cream cheese to bread right for Mistuh and I had run out of packets.
Each time I would bring it out and hand it to him he would unwrap it from the parchment. lift up the top slice and shake his head.
I had had it. Had it.
I had not been in a real kitchen yet, so I didn't know that cooks have ways of dealing with customers who are less than complimentary. If you've seen Fight Club. Yes. Sorry.
All I had was my mouth. Which is loud. And prone to swearing.
And so, my friends, I did not realize that when I was screaming "Cocksucker" at the top of my lungs next to the dishwasher that was running, and, I assumed, covering up the noise, that the president of the biggest coffee company in the whole world heard every word of it.
You would think I might have been fired. I was promoted to manager. Good help is hard to find.
There is a beautiful moment of irony 10 years later when I am BBQing for the Schultz-man on the dock of his dear friends the Fleischmanns. Private chef beats the Jesus out of sandwich-ho.
These are the cookies we made at the bakery and they are the ones you pay a dollar for at Starbucks. Make a batch for that same dollar. Howard doesn't need your money.
1 1/2 cups oats,
1/2 cup AP flour
1/4 tsp. each soda and powder
pinch salt
1/2 cup brown sugar
1/2 cup light sugar
1 large egg, room temp
tsp. vanilla
6 Tbsp. butter softened
1/2 tsp. cinnamon
3/4 cup raisins
Butter, sugar, then vanilla, then egg. Mix dry and add. Chill.
325 for 12 minutes
Non-cynical baking blog brought to you by my fetus. My evil is slippin' yo.
Monday, April 18, 2011
Falafel and Gravy
Have you ever seen Survivor? Sometime around the fifth day the tribe members start having food fantasies. They spend hours going over what they would choose if Jeff Probst magically disappeared and was replaced by a 7-11. Hot fudge sundaes, french fries, chili dogs. No one ever mentions tabouleh, say, or that precious quinoa all you glutenistas constantly go on about. It's always an Outback commercial when the ranting starts.
This is my pregnancy appetite right now. Foods that are never appealing seem like crack right now and old standbys that could be desert island choices make my stomach turn thinking about them. Except stroganoff. It would make the cattle farmers happy to know that I could eat stroganoff every day of my life and wake up looking forward to the smell of mushrooms and meat cooking.
Nick tries to remind me that jalapenos all over my chili tots (yes, tots, french fries are gross, I could not explain this current logic, sue me) is not going to make me happy six hours from now and I am painfully aware of how thin the walls of our apartment are, but I am like a grizzly ripping apart a salmon when my brain and gag center finally get my esophagus to agree to let something past. I chewed a mouthful of muesli for about three minutes the other day but could not get the throat to say yes. It wanted watermelon.
One of the strangest cravings I get is for Armenian food. My DNA is partly authentic Caucasian, and I am always down for a great falafel, but I am INSATIABLE lately and everything today must be minty and garlicky.
Not enough of you are making this perfect food and so, although there will not be pictures, I will tell you the greatest fastest way to a foilc acid-filled Meatless Monday ever. Listen up:
Soak 2 cups chickpeas for 2 days in the refrigerator in just enough water to cover. Drain and let air dry for an hour or two before you use. Food processor : chickpeas, 1 small onion, 1/2 bunch mint, 1/2 bunch parsley, 2 cloves garlic, 1 medium egg, 1 slice bread, 2 big pinches salt, 20 grinds pepper, tablespoon cumin, juice of 1 small lemon. Process on low and stir a few times so it's evenly ground into a thick paste. Chunks of chickpea will make your balls fall apart. Fry a little, taste it and adjust if you need to. Balls or patties. Oil to 300 or so, 1 minute each side. Try to share.
Tzatziki is 1 cup yogurt, 2 tablespoons lemon juice, other half bunch of mint, finely chopped, 1/2 cup chopped or grated cucumber, 1 clove garlic as much salt and pepper as your dead old tastebuds need. Get flatbread.
One and a half paragraphs and your colon says THANK YOU.
This Meatless Monday post has been brought to you by my uterus.
This is my pregnancy appetite right now. Foods that are never appealing seem like crack right now and old standbys that could be desert island choices make my stomach turn thinking about them. Except stroganoff. It would make the cattle farmers happy to know that I could eat stroganoff every day of my life and wake up looking forward to the smell of mushrooms and meat cooking.
Nick tries to remind me that jalapenos all over my chili tots (yes, tots, french fries are gross, I could not explain this current logic, sue me) is not going to make me happy six hours from now and I am painfully aware of how thin the walls of our apartment are, but I am like a grizzly ripping apart a salmon when my brain and gag center finally get my esophagus to agree to let something past. I chewed a mouthful of muesli for about three minutes the other day but could not get the throat to say yes. It wanted watermelon.
One of the strangest cravings I get is for Armenian food. My DNA is partly authentic Caucasian, and I am always down for a great falafel, but I am INSATIABLE lately and everything today must be minty and garlicky.
Not enough of you are making this perfect food and so, although there will not be pictures, I will tell you the greatest fastest way to a foilc acid-filled Meatless Monday ever. Listen up:
Soak 2 cups chickpeas for 2 days in the refrigerator in just enough water to cover. Drain and let air dry for an hour or two before you use. Food processor : chickpeas, 1 small onion, 1/2 bunch mint, 1/2 bunch parsley, 2 cloves garlic, 1 medium egg, 1 slice bread, 2 big pinches salt, 20 grinds pepper, tablespoon cumin, juice of 1 small lemon. Process on low and stir a few times so it's evenly ground into a thick paste. Chunks of chickpea will make your balls fall apart. Fry a little, taste it and adjust if you need to. Balls or patties. Oil to 300 or so, 1 minute each side. Try to share.
Tzatziki is 1 cup yogurt, 2 tablespoons lemon juice, other half bunch of mint, finely chopped, 1/2 cup chopped or grated cucumber, 1 clove garlic as much salt and pepper as your dead old tastebuds need. Get flatbread.
One and a half paragraphs and your colon says THANK YOU.
This Meatless Monday post has been brought to you by my uterus.
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
We'll See
My husband has magic sperm.
Like those beans in Jack and the Beanstalk, he plants and a vine begins to grow.
My uterus, on the other hand, is like the gingerbread cottage in Hansel and Gretel. Children go in, but they never come out. Evan is a motherfucking miracle.
I had two miscarriages after he was born and was initiated into the club of superstitious freakouts who don't even want to breathe the word pregnant lest Rumpelstiltskin crawl out of the floor and steal my fetus or whatever it is that we're afraid of.
When I got to 36 weeks with Riley I felt like I could finally talk about the impending addition and we all know how that turned out. Never count your chickens before they hatch. Apparently that means human chickens too.
Thanksgiving before last I was 16 weeks pregnant. Walt. I knew it was a boy but it was hard to tell. He popped out while I was peeing and he looked just like the fetus on those horrible signs that the Devil Christians hold up outside Planned Parenthood. I was screaming, Nick and Evan came running, we didn't know what to do so we flushed. It only occurred to me later that it might have lived had I fished it out and had any kind of idea what to do when sort of thing happens. I had just finally gone to the midwife to discuss a natural birth plan. Superstition.
As I write, my belly is swollen, my boobs are killing me and when I am not face deep in the toilet, all I want is Buffalo Blue potato chips.Normally Buffalo flavor anything would make me gag, but this little shrimp is a hillbilly and enjoys the finer things in life. Like Lynyrd Skynyrd.
I am waiting until I have skipped three periods before I go and commit to a heartbeat and a name or two.
I'm sure you understand.
Like those beans in Jack and the Beanstalk, he plants and a vine begins to grow.
My uterus, on the other hand, is like the gingerbread cottage in Hansel and Gretel. Children go in, but they never come out. Evan is a motherfucking miracle.
I had two miscarriages after he was born and was initiated into the club of superstitious freakouts who don't even want to breathe the word pregnant lest Rumpelstiltskin crawl out of the floor and steal my fetus or whatever it is that we're afraid of.
When I got to 36 weeks with Riley I felt like I could finally talk about the impending addition and we all know how that turned out. Never count your chickens before they hatch. Apparently that means human chickens too.
Thanksgiving before last I was 16 weeks pregnant. Walt. I knew it was a boy but it was hard to tell. He popped out while I was peeing and he looked just like the fetus on those horrible signs that the Devil Christians hold up outside Planned Parenthood. I was screaming, Nick and Evan came running, we didn't know what to do so we flushed. It only occurred to me later that it might have lived had I fished it out and had any kind of idea what to do when sort of thing happens. I had just finally gone to the midwife to discuss a natural birth plan. Superstition.
As I write, my belly is swollen, my boobs are killing me and when I am not face deep in the toilet, all I want is Buffalo Blue potato chips.Normally Buffalo flavor anything would make me gag, but this little shrimp is a hillbilly and enjoys the finer things in life. Like Lynyrd Skynyrd.
I am waiting until I have skipped three periods before I go and commit to a heartbeat and a name or two.
I'm sure you understand.
Thursday, February 10, 2011
Still Born (or why I am so angry all the time)
the following is a public service announcement:
At least once a month someone asks me if Evan is our only child. Maybe they can't believe one child could have worn me out so thoroughly.
I never quite know what to say.
There are so many questions we ask each other without realizing how the easy answer can be so hard.
Do I say yes, because technically he is the only one who is living.
Or do I tell them about Riley?
Riley Jane Borowiec loved the Foo Fighters. She loved bagel sandwiches with the cucumber heavily salt-peppered and she woke me up every night at midnight so I could read a book in the bathroom, sitting in front of the toilet, waiting for the remnants of the pound of cherries she insisted on to come back and look like someone was trying to flush away a murder.
Riley Jane came after four miscarriages. At the end of the first trimester I was optimistic, when she got to 9 months I was ecstatic. When the doctor said I'm sorry, there's no heartbeat, I was numb. A knot, an accident, a delivery for no purpose other than expulsion. Do you want to hear about it when you make your inquiry?
It may seem like small talk at the park or a party, but it's really an invitation for me to think of something really horrific. Lots of women have dead children and we don't all wear T-shirts because that would be AWKWARD.
So stop asking. How would you you like if I got all up in your vag and asked how you planned to throw down with it for the next ten years?
That's what I thought.
At least once a month someone asks me if Evan is our only child. Maybe they can't believe one child could have worn me out so thoroughly.
I never quite know what to say.
There are so many questions we ask each other without realizing how the easy answer can be so hard.
Do I say yes, because technically he is the only one who is living.
Or do I tell them about Riley?
Riley Jane Borowiec loved the Foo Fighters. She loved bagel sandwiches with the cucumber heavily salt-peppered and she woke me up every night at midnight so I could read a book in the bathroom, sitting in front of the toilet, waiting for the remnants of the pound of cherries she insisted on to come back and look like someone was trying to flush away a murder.
Riley Jane came after four miscarriages. At the end of the first trimester I was optimistic, when she got to 9 months I was ecstatic. When the doctor said I'm sorry, there's no heartbeat, I was numb. A knot, an accident, a delivery for no purpose other than expulsion. Do you want to hear about it when you make your inquiry?
It may seem like small talk at the park or a party, but it's really an invitation for me to think of something really horrific. Lots of women have dead children and we don't all wear T-shirts because that would be AWKWARD.
So stop asking. How would you you like if I got all up in your vag and asked how you planned to throw down with it for the next ten years?
That's what I thought.
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