My first culinary classroom creation

At the end of a bad day, cooking will always leave me with a sense of contentment, even if I did have $400, my ID, my debit card, and my bus pass stolen.

Roasted beet salad with goat cheese and a herb apple vinaigrette

A meal worth sharing

Today I attended orientation for the French Culinary Institute where I'll start school this Thursday. I felt like a giddy freshman again, eager to meet my classmates and learn what the months to come would entail.

I arrived to the building where a table of my classmates were sitting patiently in silence. None of them were really talking, but I sat down anyway and introduced myself. Everyone went around the table and said where they were from. Most of them were from New Jersey and one of them was from the Boston area. I've noticed that people are pretty specific when it comes to claiming Jersey, much like people from Kansas City. I have yet to learn what each of these areas encompasses in terms of character, socioeconomic class, etc. Like Kansas City, I'm sure people get a little sensitive if you connect them with the wrong part of Jersey.

When it was time for orientation to actually start we were led through a narrow hallway where we had our pictures taken and eventually to a room where we all had duffel bags waiting for us. My duffel was labeled with my name and inside it were three chef jackets with my name sewn on the right side, three pairs of pants, three skull caps, three aprons, three neckerchiefs, and dish towels. I also received two books, one with my class notes and a food guide.

After we claimed our things we sat and waited for the presentation to being. I looked around the room and noticed that the class was an even split between men and women. There are about 25 people from what I gather. I'll be with this group until I graduate in June 2011, so I'm sure we'll get to know eachother pretty well. When we went around the room to introduce ourselves we were asked to state our names, where we were from, and explain the last good meal we ate.

My new classmates are from New Jersey, Queens, Bronx, Brooklyn, Harlem, Russia, Florida, Ohio, Boston, Maryland, Sacramento, and St. Louis. I'm the only Kansan. I didn't get into the whole "I'm from Colorado and Kansas" explanation. I'll claim Kansas for now. Everyone had a different dining experience to share when we explained our last good meals. Some people said they cherished the last meal their mom made, while others spoke of dining aboard and local spots within their neighborhoods. A couple even chose to reveal that their loyalty lies with chain restaurants, which is pretty lame if you ask me.

I described a meal I had two nights ago with my new friend Thomas. After we closed up the restaurant Thomas invited me to go to Greenpoint, Brooklyn, for some authentic Polish food. He said the place served affordable grub and all the servers wore traditional Polish attire, and better yet, the wine was cheap. I was in! We hopped the subway and before I knew it we were in Greenpoint standing in front of Karczma.

Never having the opportunity to eat Polish food before, I didn't have any expectations, and I'm glad because I really enjoyed what I saw when we set foot in the place. The dining area resembles an old farm house with wooden tables and a wooden bar. I didn't know if I was part of the crew on Oregon Trail or if I was in Poland, but I dug it. Polish folk music was turned up on high and Polish beer poured from the taps. The menu was a large wooden book, sturdy and sacred looking. I told Thomas to order since he was a return customer. He ordered a plate of steak tartar, a large beer to share, a Polish specialty plate, and a cheap bottle of red wine. I ordered the spicy beef goulash for some extra variety.

When the steak tartar arrived, we were both a little taken aback. It in no way resembled the delicate mound of tartar we served at our restaurant with slender, toasted pieces of bread. This tartar was obviously out to redefine tartar, or convince us that we should never order tartar again. Our Polish waitress slid a pound of ground chuck onto the table with a side of onions, mushrooms, pickles, and capers. We both had a moment of silence when the plate arrived, confused where we should start and wondering if we should even eat it. Was this sanitary? I began to wonder. Thomas mixed everything into the beef and I began to remember my grandma Annette eating raw pieces of hamburger with salt. Eating raw red meat hadn't killed her, so surely I would be fine. I smeared some of the meat onto a slice of bread, closed my eyes, and did as my father always told me — I tried something new. It wasn't bad, but we weren't licking the plate clean either.

"Do you not like the tartar?" the waitress asked.

"Oh no, of course not!" Thomas falsely assured her, giving me a wink as she hurried to another table.

When dinner arrived I knew my stomach was in for a beating. A heaping plate of goulash sat before me and a large plate of pierogies, hunter's stew, potato pancakes, kielbasa, and stuffed cabbage sat piled high before Thomas. Everything was either meat, sauerkraut, potato, or salt. Not a combination I'd indulge in too often, but definitely a selection of new tastes. It was the experience and the company, however, that made a dive into a new culture all the more pleasant and memorable, which is why I thought the meal was worth sharing with my classmates.

On Thursday I will arrive for my first evening of classes. I'll receive my knife set and it will most likely be a syllabus day of sorts. I'm sure the chef will have an introduction followed by kitchen rules and a few words about sanitation. Surely I'll find a story within the evening worth telling.

Until then,

Lauren

Bruschetta

I noticed my $5 loaf of whole grain bread was getting a little dry, so I decided to use it by making some bruschetta. It's one of my favorite snacks that can easily be a meal too. I cut a few slices of bread and brushed a side with olive oil. I placed the bread under the broiler until each piece was a litte golden and chopped some farmers market tomatoes, canned olives, and fresh basil. I topped each piece with a crack of pepper and a little salt. It was a great way to use some aging bread.

Finally, free time

I finally have time to wash my underwear. After nine days of working, eight of them doubles, I'm happy to report that I've had three days off to do whatever I want.

Sunday I went to Trader Joe's and picked up some necessities. I'm pretty happy when my fridge is stocked with salad fixings, goat cheese, tortillas, salsa, almond milk, vegetables, and beer. My roommate works on weekends, so I decided to buy some salmon for dinner. I marinaded it in maple syrup, soy sauce, and fresh ginger and served it with barley and stir fried zucchini. We ate some edamame and cucumber dumplings for an appetizer. Mae has never had to cook for herself, so cooking in our tiny New York City kitchen has been enjoyable and new for both of us. In the mornings I usually saute myself an assortment of vegetables and serve them with eggs over easy.

Yesterday was the first time I was able to shop for anything that I didn't have to wear to work. I stocked our kitchen with a few items I found at cheap home furnishing store down the street and stopped at a farmers market. I was really surprised to see how many farmers markets are in the city! There are a variety of markets and all of them are huge! How they're able to transport all of the fresh produce is beyond me. I'm glad it's all available. Mae has learned that shopping for me usually entails kitchen items and groceries, not necessarily shoes and clothes. "On Friday we're going shopping," she said. "Oh great, I've been wanting to go inside the big Crate & Barrel!" I told her. "No, like real shopping, Lauren." I'm a lost cause.

Last night I was invited to observe a class at the French Culinary Institute where I'll be attending evening classes beginning next Thursday. When I arrived to the building I was issued a chef jacket and hat. I was introduced to a prospective student and together we were led to classroom of students prepping their cooking stations for class. The chef instructor told us he would be teaching how to cook and serve shell fish. I looked to the dry erase board that hung in front of the classroom. "Class Plan of Action" was written across the board with a list of tasks to accomplish:

Class Plan of Action

-Court bouillon with vinegar

-Sauce Americaine

-Moules a la marinere

-Escargot Bourguignon

-Scallop with parsley coulis

-Oysters & clams

The class met at the head of the classroom where the chef began to lecture about the versatility of sauce Americaine, which is a rich lobster sauce made using the entire lobster. He then grabbed a live lobster and began to prepare the class for the execution the lethargic sea creature. I watched as students began to squirm, some of them laying their eyes on a live lobster for the first time. I have memories of my father submerging live lobsters into boiling water for their final moments, but I'd never seen anyone kill a lobster like this chef did.

He held the creature with both hands, knuckles up, and twisted its body like a wet rag. Water and bodily fluids began to seep from the lobster's broken shell and the chef began to pull the organs from the head cavity. It was quick, and probably more painful for the students watching than the lobster. He then stuck a thick needle through the lobster's dismembered tail to prevent it from curling and the class watched as the dead specimen's legs continued to flail. The lobster's meat was placed in a bowl separate from the cracked shells, which would later be used to enhance the court bouillon. He then dismissed the class to preform the same routine at their individual stations.

I watched as students held their lobsters, some of them hesitant to commit lobster murder. Shells cracked and lobster bodies began to clank against the steel bowls at each station. Once the lobster preparation was finished, the class began to prepare their sauce Americaine and some steamed mussels. The smell of simmering garlic, butter, and lobster stock began to drift through the air. White wine hit my nose and I could hear the chef saw at crunchy baguettes. Broth foamed in each pan as parsley and slabs of butter were tossed into the mix. All I wanted was a slice of baguette and an invitation to dip it. Alas, the mussels were steamed and a buttery liquid was drizzled over their yawning shells. "Would you like one?" one of the students asked. She could probably see me salivating.

Class continued, and before I knew it I had been observing for an hour and a half. Luckily, when I turned in my issued chef coat I knew dinner downstairs at L'Ecole was waiting. My admissions officer invited me and a guest of my choice to eat at the restaurant on the school's tab. I will cook at this restaurant during my last 200 hours of training.

Mae was my guest and we enjoyed a cocktail at the bar before we were sat for our five course meal.

Dinner was fantastic. Mae and I asked our waiter about the sweetbreads on the menu since neither of us had tried them before. Sweetbreads are thymus glands of beef, pork, or lamb that are usually pan fried. Sensing our hesitation to try them, he didn't push us to order, but instead mentioned that he might bring us a surprise at some point in the meal. When our meat courses arrived, sweetbreads accompanied our osso buco and lamb dishes. We each tried them, but we didn't finish them. While the taste wasn't bad, the texture was different... almost like fried soft fat.

After five liberal courses, we were feeling full and sleepy. We pushed ourselves to walk home, and even though I was slightly uncomfortable, I smiled the whole way home. The evening definitely made me excited to start school next week. It's really happening!

Bourbon & Game

He'd been marinating the idea for the last couple months, assembling his menu, selecting his pairings, and discussing matters with his crew. It would be his debut serving a room full of Kansas City foodies, all of them hungry for the smokey, sweet aromas of bourbon and flesh from the forest. He plotted how the evening would flow and how each plate would arrive, all accented by the right Kentucky gem. "Bourbon & Game" was the name of the game, and Chef Chris Wofford had every intention of delivering true Southern comfort, one course at a time.

The Test Kitchen, a Kansas City underground supper club open to anyone with culinary curiosity, invited Chef Wofford to inspire them. A long table dressed with black linen and tealights supported silver charger plates, glasses of Makers Mark, and a sheet of paper that would reveal what the next three hours would entail. The scent of fresh Nicaraguan hand rolled cigars carried through the air and conversations bounced between the walls of the industrial space. After taking a pledge — a solemn oath to try everything placed before them — the foodie "disciples" sat, eagerly awaiting the unknown.

The first of five courses arrived and the guests gradually grew quiet. Rabbit confit placed on top of sharp cheddar johnny cakes with wild mushrooms sat before each diner. The Makers Mark sipped during the cocktail hour was traded for a neat pour of Bulliet, which contained notes of oak, spice, vanilla, and honey. Together, the rich shreds of rabbit and delicate mushrooms set the tone for the rest of the evening. This was not going to be a dinner of game meats presented plainly, but rather a sophisticated assembly of dishes ready to surprise the pallete.

Roasted breast of pheasant with wilted greens and a spicy peanut vinaigrette arrived next. A nest of wontons spilled greens onto the plate and the tender pheasant lay sliced on its bed. Sprinkles of edible flowers and slightly wet greens made the dish resemble a bird in a soft habitat after a spring shower. A glass of Bakers accompanied the dish with hints of toasted nuts, fruit, and vanilla.

White, moist meat intensified to red deer flank steak served on venison sausage and hoppin' john. A raspberry barbecue sauce bled sweetness and a tossed salad of julienned squash and peppers dressed the hearty dish with a dash of something light. The lean meat that had been marinated in brown sugar and bourbon was bright with flavor, especially with a quick prance through the raspberry barbecue sauce. Knob Creek added a punch of woody, sweet fruit.

Course four began and the bar was high, but two rib bones from a rack of wild boar met expectations. Nestled on a mound of peppercorn hominy grits with a blackberry molasses gastrique, the wild boar paired beautifully with a splash of light-bodied Basil Hayden. Some of the cooks even dipped the boar into their glasses, just to insure the chemistry of the pair.

After four courses of wild game redefined, a pecan and smoked chocolate pastry cigar arrived to each guest. Each cigar rested on a chocolate ashtray filled with strawberry anglaise and fresh strawberry slices. Lips wrapped around each sweet cigar, and hands grasped the final pour of Bookers, ripe with hints of fruit, tannin, and tobacco. Everyone felt like a true aficionado.

To view all pictures from the evening, check out the Picasa Web album.

The beginning of a new beginning

My boyfriend of sixth months left for California this morning. He loaded a small and rusted Corolla with his three bikes, a handful of belongings, and a his cat. He packed light, left all that he knew, and headed West to discover what his California itch is all about. I'm happy for him, but a selfish part of me wishes we had more time together. The reality of separation really stings, even though I am moving in 13 days.

A knot of emotional congestion has gathered in my chest and I've lost a taste in my mouth. I've also failed to write for about a week, which was against my blogging plans. I've been eating, but it hasn't been very enjoyable since he told me he was leaving. My friends and family have pulled me through the doldrums and I've accepted that life without him will feel strange for awhile.

My friend Cameron believes I'll feel better when I move. I have every reason to feel excited, and our conversation over dinner at Teller's last Thursday reminded me of that. Cameron has an unmatchable ability to lift my spirits and make me laugh. He drank some Adami Garbel Prosecco and I sipped a couple glasses of Wente "Morning Fog" Chardonnay. Cameron insisted that I eat something, even though food was the last thing on my mind. We split a warm goat cheese spread appetizer with Black Mission Figs. My tears were interrupted by spurts of laughter and the appetite that had vanished made an appearance. It was a therapeutic dinner for me. We had a few side salads and nibbled on a margarita pizza fresh from the pizza oven. It's just what I needed - Simple food, a few drinks, and Cameron's company.

My dad, step mom, and brothers visited on Friday to experience a stroll down Massachusetts Street for one last time before I move. They treated me a mojito at Esquina and dinner at Pachamama's, which caters to guests who want something a little inspiring out of their dining experience. It's hard to put a finger on what Pachamama's really specializes in, but I think it's safe to describe the food as a fusion of the familiar and the foreign. The typical suspects are on the menu, but they've been dressed up with some modern, multicultural flare. My brothers have grown to learn that eating out is about trying new things in our family, and bless their hearts, they really try. With their tastes in mind, we decided to order the the Rock Shrimp Mac & Cheese "Lollipops" as an appetizer. It sounded intriguing and what kid wouldn't want to eat mac & cheese on a skewer? Sneak some shrimp in there, fry it up, and it's bound to excite their taste buds. They were good. For dinner we all ordered different items and passed them around the table to for everyone to try. My dad ordered the Apple-Wood Smoked Duck Breast, Heidi tried the fish special (which is escaping me right now), the boys split a Star Bar Burger jazzed with white cheddar and smoked bacon, and I picked Oaxaca-Cheese Stuffed Thick Cut Pork Chop. The duck breast arrived to the table drizzled with a brown sugar blueberry butter on a bed of fingerling potatoes and creamed zucchini.

Duck may not be my favorite bird on a plate, but it was definitely a combination of tastes I hadn't tried before, which is always a good thing. We all enjoyed Heidi's fish. No one seemed to love my pork chop, but I liked it. I felt like there was too much going on in the dish, but I really like the crushed hominy underneath the chop. It had a gritty texture and it really complimented the rojo sauce, which had the right amount of heat.

I don't know that a pork chop really need cheese stuffed into it, but it was an interesting

technique. The burger impressed us all. It was killer. A friend of mine used to work in the Pachamama's kitchen and he swears it's the best burger in town. I believe him. He said they grind the ground beef in house, bake the buns, and have a secret combination of ingredients in their patties. I'd venture to say the burgers at Pachamama's are senior to Dempsey's and The Burger Stand. If you're in Lawrence, you may want to venture on your own burger taste challenge. We ditched a fancy dessert so the boys could enjoy some Cold Stone, which puts their Salina ice cream options to shame. Their visit really meant a lot to me and dinner at Pachamama's was a perfect cap to my four years in Lawrence.

This will be my last full week in Lawrence, a place I definitely consider a home. I received a stellar education in this town and I've met some amazing people here. I learned a lot about the local restaurant scene and I observed several kitchens that will forever influence the rest of my career. I may feel a little tender right now, but it's only because I've grown attached to the familiar. The beginning of a new beginning is never easy.

Cafe Beautiful

Cafe Beautiful is definitely an appropriate name for Chef Sukan's cozy, lofted, private restaurant on Massachusetts Street. This past Tuesday I had the pleasure of dining at Cafe Beautiful with a small group of friends in honor of new transitions. My friend Lindsey will be moving to Chicago this weekend and I'll be moving to New York City in a month. Sukan's food celebrates very percise knife work and all that is simple. He doesn't advertise and he said he breaks even with his business. It's not about the money for Sukan, and that's obvious when you get the check and you've just experienced eight courses of beautiful food for $67 in the comfort of a personal dining room. Oh yea, and you get you bring your own wine AND you get a personal chef all to yourself for three hours. Deal? I think so. I'll let the photos speak for themselves.



"Justifiable passion. That's what I have."
-Chef Ken Sukan

Course 1: Butterflied shrimp with a bay scallop in an egg custard

Notice that the custard is presented in a hallowed squash bottom.

Wine Pairing: The. Formula 2005 Small Gully

Course 2: Fresh fruits glazed with ginger dressing

I adore the little kiwi flowers. I think this looks like a fruit boat with a pineapple sail.

Wine pairing: Siduri Pinot Noir 2008

Course 3: Red snapper
Wine pairing: Folie a Deux 2006 Napa Valley

Course 3 (vegetarian): Tempura vegetable tower


Course 4: Cucumber salad with white tuna and sesame drizzle

This salad is one of the best salads I've ever put in my mouth. Sukan created tiny julienned tendrils of jicama, purple cabage, carrot, and cucumber tossed with a light vinegarette. The hallowed cucumber created a bustier for the overflow of seductive slaw.

Wine pairing: I think I stopped writing down
the wines at this point in the meal...Oops.

Course 5: Sockeye Salmon with a ginger soy glaze
and a salad of apple and fennel


Course 6: Tuna sashimi flower presented in an ice bowl

Course 7: Sushi unagi
Course 8: Warm tea (not pictured)

After eight courses of fantastic food and wine, we were all happily full and buzzing. The conversation was rich with laughter and memories. Lindsey said it best: "I love how more wine brings out the sheer honesty that I so much appreciate." It was a night of the best food and company I could have asked for.

Why Cook?

"We may be glorified servants, catering to the whims of those usually wealthier than us, but we are tougher, meaner, stronger, more reliable, and well aware of the fact that we can do something with out hands, our senses, the accumulated wisdom of thousands of meals served, that they can't." Anthony Bourdain, The Nasty Bits

"When did you know you wanted to be a chef?" My sister asked, just the other night while we were watching the final episode of Top Chef Masters. Marcus Samuelson, now Top Chef Master, told the story of growing up as an Ethiopian adopted child in a Swedish home, a past that has forever influenced his culinary success. While Swedish cuisine undoubtedly sculpted his palate, his roots in Ethiopia planted an ever growing ambition to raise awareness about the culture and the cuisine. Even though he spent hours cooking alongside his Swedish grandmother as a child, it is his dedication to multicultural cuisine that has made him great, which is an achievement that wouldn't have been possible without his particular history.

So when did I know I wanted to cook and be a chef? My past isn't nearly as intriguing as Samuelson, but I do know that I have always been drawn to food. My mother said that as a young kid I would constantly remind her when food was getting low in the house, worried that we would run out of things to eat and eager to visit the grocery store. I loved being surrounded by rows of fresh produce, aisles of perfectly stocked boxes of cereal, and chilled cases of cheese varieties. I remember asking permission to go stand in the dairy section because I enjoyed the cool temprature and I wanted to study the collections of yogurts and Pillsbury cookies. I was a weird kid.

My mother was a single parent after she and my father were divorced. Neither of my parents could afford meals out and food at home had to be affordable, quick, and simple. I remember eating a lot of instant potatoes, macaroni, crockpot fixings, and peanut butter sandwiches. My sister and I saw our father on weekends when he wasn't tied up with medical residency obligations. At some point meals with dad got nicer. We were no longer eating our standard ham steak dinner with macaroni and baked beans. My dad was cooking lamb, stewing seafood bisques, and reading about how to make his own pizza dough. What was even better was that my dad was inviting me to help him in the kitchen.

I really began to value nights in the kitchen with my dad. He began asking for my input and provided the means for me to explore desserts. He'd make dinner and I'd make dessert. I eventually started making dinners and started experimenting with course meals. It was my father's praise that really fueled my love to cook. Maybe I wasn't the child that matched his athleticism or academic success when he was in high school, but I was creating meals that he liked.

Last month I made the trip home to cook a father's day dinner for my dad. I talked to the chefs where I work and asked them what they would make for Father's Day. Chris Wofford, the Executive Chef at Ten, suggested that I poach seabass like the kitchen staff does in the Ten kitchen. I liked the idea and Chef helped me get my hands on fresh seabass.

I transported the seabass back to Salina and prepared butter sautéed seabass like my friend Nick Haxton, Sous Chef at Ten, taught me. I placed the seabass on a dense bed of lemon risotto and placed delicate pepper curls on the fish as a garnish, which is a technique I also brought home from the restaurant.My dad said it was the best seabass he has ever had, which is quite the compliment coming from a man who was born near a coast and later spent years living in Charlson, SC., while he was stationed at The Naval Academy. I prepared several versions of fried calamari as a appetizer and served a spinach, strawberry, candied walnut, and gorgonzola salad with a balsalmic reduction. It was perfect.

Watching people smile over a meal is the greatest satisfaction for me, and my dad's smile was wide that evening.