On January 4th, I will begin culinary school at Le Cordon Bleu.

A long time coming- this desire has been seemingly ever present for years now, crouching cautiously in waiting while I busied myself doing god knows what. Le Cordon Bleu is and was a big deal- a gal needs to be full on ready for this sort of commitment, to embark on it at the exact right time (who am I kidding? my decisions are for the most part completely arbitrary). So it goes..time has passed and during I have engaged in variant projects, all the while never quite able to shake the culinary course curious monkey off my back .

Ill be damned if putting off classes didn’t strengthen the lure, the tension compounded every time I interviewed a chef or reviewed a restaurant…this has been foreplay- building me up to an itchy enthusiasm, a hankering hunger. Now, officially lusting for it I am truly as ready I will ever be. So here goes, I’ve saddled up- toured the school, interviewed with admissions staff, shook some hands, registered for the course, paid my dues…hell, I even got fitted for my uniform. I will be attending Monday through Friday, 5 days a week for the next 9 months. My plan is to write about it the whole way through, sharing the daily details of my culinary school experience. Wish me luck eh? Only about a month to go until I get started…

I have yet to hunt. Mind you, Im no stranger to the “meet your meat” practice- having butchered plenty of fowl in my day I am humbled by the periods in which I respectfully raised/slaughtered chickens for food. These enriching experiences have instilled in me a heavy gratitude as well as fostered what I believe to be a crucial connection. Also, last but certainly not least important- the meat tasted bounds better, beyond compare really. But killing a chicken vs. hunting wild game…its got to be phenomenally different right?
Reading this article in the NY Times the other night made me flush with envy. I want to hunt. Damn these folks that have a hunting club! I want a hunting club. Shit shit. This has long been on a list of skills I would like to acquire- right up there next to fly fishing and trying my hand at home brewed beer. Maybe this article will light a fire under my ass? Hope so.

http://www.nytimes.com/2009/11/25/dining/25hunt.html?hpw

The city is dozing and I am deeply almost angrily envious. Here I stand rubbing the sleep out of my eyes, hair wild, my jacket pulled tightly around me. It is damn early, the streets abandoned…light has not even begun to touch the Seattle skyline. It could be two in the morning, the middle of the night…all I know is that it is dark, cool and post-apocalyptic quiet. Pike Place Market at this hour is forget-to-exhale stunning. It looks like a movie set or a postcard, a still life painting of the city. The stalls are empty- there’s no evidence of the heavy traffic, the shouting vendors, the truckloads of fresh cut flowers and fruit they will be jammed with in a matter of hours. (more…)

The space, the food…Delancey is best described as pure, clean and deliciously simple. Yet, despite the austere inelaborate decor, it feels cozy here. It must be the proud presence of the warm brick oven that sets the tone…or the quirky photos on the walls, the basic furniture…maybe its the snug unpretentious neighborhood location. The softness of this pizzeria in conjunction with the cordial hospitality that owners Molly and Brandon effortlessly exude makes Delancey feel less like a rising star in the restaurant scene (which it certainly is) and more a local nook where its seems nearly intuitive to unwrap your scarf and stay awhile. (more…)

I rate soup largely on its density. A stew or a bisque- a food with some weight to it, fall in my favor most often. None of this watery nonsense- trying to dredge up the solid bits in my bowl is obnoxious, I am disinterested and for the most part totally opposed to food hide and seek. No good…no no good. The other thing with soupy soup is it really does little to satiate hunger. Yes, temporarily it fills the belly but in the same way that water does- its a placebo that is quickly pissed out. And following that bladder releasing bathroom visit, guess what? I’m fucking hungry again. Thus making the soupy soup “meal” I just consumed completely superfluous. (more…)

A cough is difficult to contain under these circumstances. My lungs must resemble a shaken snow globe- a small storm of powder swirls madly about, then adheres to my insides like spackle. Lips delicately dusted white, a rich buttery slightly nutty cookie crumbling beneath the pressure of my tongue (the uncomfortable wheezing fits that accompany such sweetness are a tiny price to pay really). I suppose I can be more cautious…do my best to stifle an inhale and/or avoid speaking when one of these delicious devils are in my mouth. But really? Maybe I don’t care enough or maybe (being the twisted individual I am) I deem the lung assault a crucial, almost enjoyable part of the Russian Tea Cake eating process. (more…)

Elaborate, rich and staggeringly decadent…I pictured dinner at The Herbfarm as such but I was still blown away by the reality of it. The whole bit, down to the tiniest details (fancy place cards, snacks as parting gifts) were unique, marvelously special. The theme of the dinner- “Makin’ Bacon” translated to all things pig. Swine cooked/prepared/showcased a dozen different ways and included in every course- from the initial cocktail to each last iota of dessert. Astounding. All of it was delicious, interesting but I can honestly say that I wont be eating pork again for awhile…it was too damn much. (more…)

Come chanterelle season, you cant slap the grin off my face. This food reduces me to a giddy idiot…these mushrooms have me elated, frantic and illogically ravenous. I handle them as though they bear the fragility of a snowflake but despite my tender touch, chanterelle is a tyrant this time of year- monopolizing restaurant menus, strong arming market bins and dominating recipes. Fortunately, the regularity to which they appear on my plate does not deter me…no matter how many times or at what frequency, each taste feels like my first. (more…)

I met Brandi on one of many visits to Las Vegas years ago. I first caught sight of her while drinking at a crusty bar with an ex of mine. Strutting in, she was quite the distraction- tall, blonde, nice teeth and in great shape (partly, I’m sure, due to her work with the police department). The woman was stunning…just hot as hell. We hit it off, had a tryst and over time have established a lovely friendship beyond our initial carnal attraction.

Not only is the woman a fox and a good pal but it turns out she makes a damn fine jelly to boot. Prickly Pear Jelly? I had never tasted nor heard of it so Brandi offered to send me a couple jars. The jelly is an irradiant magenta color, nearly neon. The flavor is delicious- similar to grape but more mild. Below, is Brandi’s recipe and additional information in regards to harvesting cactus fruit that she was oh so generous to share. (more…)