As part of my recent mental beautification and education project, I signed up for a couple of classes at the local food-ware store, The Wooden Spoon. The first class was two weeks ago, and it covered the basics of roasting, baking, sauteing, and ... I don't remember. Two other techniques.
This is the first time I've ever gone hands-on in a class. Up until then, all my cooking education had been via The Culinary Institute of Television. I studied under Julia, Jaques (and his hopelessly inept daughter Claudine), and my favorite TV chef ever, Caprial Pence. I used to be able to watch lectures from the CIA on PBS, if I got home early enough from your Saturday morning grocery runs. With cable TV, I graduated to Sara Molton, Emeril, and Mario. (Now I'm worship the Holy Trinity of Alton, Ina, and Bourdain.)
But the thing is, I don't think I know how to cook. After two cooking classes, I know how to cook. It has nothing to do with technique and everything to do with confidence.
Today's class didn't get off on the best foot.. After being stiffed for a ride by the CTA and the vanishing #22 Clark bus, I had to hoof it (in a hurry) about three-quarters of a mile in about 10 minutes. I made it with time to dash into the bodega across the street for iced tea and water. WOOT.
I rushed in, grabbed a spot at the counter, and caught the tail end of a conversation about cast iron vs. porcelain clad cast iron (basically Lodge v. Le Creuset). (Huge fan of both.) I was worried, because this class was more advanced than Don't Burn Yourself 101--the last class--I wasn't sure I'd be able to keep up. Based on the conversation, I lost that fear and instead became apprehensive that Team Ralph Wiggum might never have made their own sandwiches before.
Quick briefing then we're on to Cesar Salad, Pulled Pork w/Coleslaw, Crab Cakes w/roasted red pepper sauce, Jambalaya, and Maple Bacon Glazed Donuts. (Mmmm. Donutsssss.)
All five stations worked at once, but because of no-shows, I became an army of one, Me vs. The Salad. I could pause here and grumble that I made the damn salad last time, but instead I took it as an opportunity to hone my skills as Iron Chef Vinaigrette, because, DUDE. My dressings kick ASS.
In the tradition of my father, I was all assholes and elbows on the salad. Call me Julie Cesar. In chatting with the chef, we agreed I would going stealth on the dressing because--SPOILER ALERT--Cesar dressings are made with coddled eggs and sardines. (In fact in my house, you probably are getting a raw egg...strike that. You never heard that.)
I am a romaine ripping, herb chopping, arm flaps whipping in the breeze as I whisk like it's my damn job salad maniac. I don't have the luxury of tracking down the measuring spoons (in the hands of Team I Ate My Red Crayon as they fiercely debate whether little t means teaspoon or tablespoon) so I am eyeballing like a bitch. I whip up a batch of homemade crutons that make the angels sing. I am hustling and "Yes Chef"-ing and in the zone.
When I'm held up because I can't get to the stove and have to outsource my coddled eggs to Stool #5 (who screws them up), I whip together the most amazing mise en place for the rest of the ingredients. After Todd hands me my now soft-boiled eggs--thanks TODD--we are rocking and rolling.
Finishing touch is a dusting (heh...this is me we're talking about) of Asiago cheese. Per-flipping-fection if I do say so myself. (In spite of the soft-boiled eggs, TODD.).
The jamablaya was good. The crabcakes (I typed crapcakes the first time--that sounds about right) were okay. Slaw and pulled pork good, particularly with some pickeled jalepenos tucked into my sammie. And the doooonuts. The donuts were great but huge and I was suddenly aware of why the master plan for today involved the impromptu sprint.
But while all this is going on, I'm scoping the perimeter. Because you'd better believe I'm checking out the 20% off All-Clad cookware just behind me. Ohhh, you sweet little sauce pan. Who's your mama?
Speaking of mothers, mine's a firm believer in knowing what the good stuff is, and then buying it on sale. All-Clad has traditionally been well beyond my price point, even on sale. I reached my dainty, still somewhat garlicky mitt past all the fancy stuff and retrieved a small, gorgeous saucier just hanging back there all Corduroy-like, waiting to come home with her true person.
To recap: No buses, had to run. Stuck making the least glamorous and challenging dish. Packing home a $90 All-Clad saucier for a mere $45? I can take days like this alllll week.
Meet Alekka, after today's chef. She and I are going to rock little reductions like they're going out of style. I will totally coddle your egg in her if you come to my house for salad. (As far as you know...)
PS: I'll let you know when I'm making those maple bacon donuts. I saw God.