I made pate a choux for my family this weekend to demonstrate my newfound culinary chops – and because two pies and candied pecans weren’t enough to sate my sweet tooth. Using the French Culinary Institute’s Level Three recipe as a guide, I added cinnamon to the choux paste and substituted Kahlua-drenched pastry cream for [read more ...]
I knew that the first thing I’d do in Syracuse was go to Wegmans. I was right.
I was a little nervous about driving a car for the first time in six months (would I remember how?), but I needed supplies – I needed to bake an apple tart, I needed Brussels sprouts, I needed pumpkin [read more ...]
I wake up at 5:25 to the alarm clock ringing. I lunge for it and press the snooze button. I knew I would; in fact, I’ve set it five minutes early on purpose. The extra sleep feels like a gift, a treat. At 5:30, it sounds again and this time I turn it off and [read more ...]
I needed to quickly sharpen my santoku in the midst of chopping shallots at work the other day. I’d forgotten my steel at home, and when I grabbed the kitchen’s, I was taken aback by the shape. Mine was round, but this one was flat. I’d never used a flat steel before, and I didn’t [read more ...]
“Eee-hee-hee-hee,” I said, watching Mark gently push pig intestine over the spout of the sausage machine. I’d never used real casing before, and I was surprised at how filmy yet durable it looked. It looked like a gigantic condom, and the machine looked like … well, you can use your imagination.
“Wow, Mark,” Dan said. “You’re [read more ...]
I was charring peppers on the grill at work on Friday, talking to my chef as he cleaned chanterelle mushrooms. Fridays are slow for us – they’re typically spent cleaning up the mess of the past week, readying for the coming one.
“I don’t know, man,” he said, peeling back the stem with a paring knife. [read more ...]
The last time we rode the train together, we kissed so fiercely that I elicited applause from the other passengers when he exited. We had sat close to one another, my feet tucked underneath my thighs, my knees resting on his legs. We spoke in excited whispers, our faces inches apart and our voices dripping with [read more ...]
Sometimes, this is what it feels like when I cook:
Okay, what am I making today? Poulet Roti Grand-mere. Roast chicken, grandmother style. Oh god. Not again. I’ve made this six times already. It. Is. So. Boring. And long. And involved. And all of that stupid garniture. Garni-churrrr. I want to go home. No I don’t. [read more ...]
We’re talking about food as we eat it. I love doing that.
There are three macaroons to be had, and I suggest we start with vanilla because comparatively, it’s the most boring.
It’s simple, but not boring. He takes the first bite, then turns the cookie around and guides it into my mouth. The first thing I [read more ...]
The kitchen was busy, bustling with activity and sweating students, but I was in a tranquil state as I worked on my grenobloise. I was calmly segmenting a lemon across the island from Derek when I felt something soft hit my rear end with a WHUMP.
Before I could turn around, I heard a distinctly French [read more ...]
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