Foodrighter

Oil and vinegar

I missed the “Game ” class, and then we had the Independence holiday off.

Sweet relief.

I was worried that everyone would think that my absence meant that the ‘Pastry Cream Incident of 2004′ had gotten the best of me. Well, honestly, I was wondering, too.

But, no. Like clockwork, Monday the 12th came around and I started to prep the girls’ and Joe’s dinner (I set the BBQ on fire). Joe came home shortly thereafter,we all kissed goodbye, and it was time to go back to school.

I changed from my tank top and shorts-scary I know. I put on my required long sleeves, long pants, closed-toe shoes and grabbed my baseball cap. The cap is an horrendous piece of ‘Swag’ from one of Joe’s eight-million events that says on the brim, “We CAN win!”

Ouch! But, it perfectly matches my Gap tan cargo pants. So, whatever!

It was 400,000 degrees in L.A. on Monday.

I thought the class was going to be “puff pastry II”. The thought of 4 industrial ovens set at 400 degrees was totally bumming me out. I’m already over-heated.

But, when I arrived, greeted extremely cheerily by all: Sabrina the Home Schooler, Ashley, Nora the Locksmith, L.A. Gear Alice, Not Gay Lance, Cameron, Anna and even Crazy Linda. I was shocked. Did they miss me? Or am I about to be voted off of the island.

PLEASE vote me off!

I learned that tonight was “Salad II”.

Oh thank God. Something Cold! And after the heavy dishes of the last few classes I have to add: Oh thank God. Fiber!

We spent the first two hours listening to a very long lecture by Chef. They keep seeming to get longer– or maybe it’s just getting hotter. We also had a blind tasting of several flavors and varietals of vinegars and oils.

We each had a plastic cup filled with forty pieces of cut straws, a tiny cup of sugar and Chef was passing out one ounce samples of vinegars and separate cups of oils. With our fingers on the top of the straw, we trapped a taste of each sample to drop onto our tongues.

We were supposed to blind taste and identify each drop like a Master Sommelier.

“I taste almond or no– hazelnut. That’s definitely hazelnut oil,” I said confidently to the first sample.

Chef’s eyes rolled, “That’s supermarket-grade olive oil,” she said.

It went on like that for forty minutes.

“I taste notes of fig,” I would exhort.

“Yeah. That’s malt vinegar,” she would explain, unable to even look in my direction.

Obviously I had too many Marlboro Lights in the 90s  to distinguish the taste of anything except a Marlboro Light.

Alice was sitting next to me. She was a blind-tasting god. 70% Wow! Even faced with a combo of grape seed (as I learned, any oil that is bright pale green is obviously grape seed oil) lemon essence, mango, and coconut extract. She nailed it.

Show Off.

To save the day…

Lance gave us the most beautiful homily about sherry and sherry vinegar.

Our tax dollars brought him via the U.S. Navy to a wonderful 20 months in Andalusia.

Yeah, yeah, protecting the world, living on a boat, less than minimum wage, prepared to die for my family…whatever. I was totally jealous. Sipping sherry from barrels in the “Sherry triangle” sounded like heaven to me.

I could have listened to him all night, but suddenly Linda was chiming about her latest crazy experience that had nothing to do with any of us or anything we had to do tonight. I was annoyed. Chef was getting annoyed too.

As Crazy Linda clamored on about an ongoing fight she’s been having with a “Japanese Buddy” of hers, regarding the smoking point of sesame oil (which one should never cook with anyway), Chef finally cut her off. Then, she passed me vinegar number 15A.

“Thank you!”, I said looking her straight into her eyes. We, for the first time, agreed.

I took my taste. “Balsamic, of course.”

“Apple cider,” she replied. Damn!

When the tasting was over, I scored a very below average, and we broke into groups.

She divided the room in half and told us to cook.

I quickly donned my chef’s coat and washed my hands.

When I emerged from the ladies room, I saw Chef yelling to the room, “Where is Jules?!”

“Jules?!” she bellowed.

“Oh God!,” I thought. Not only was I going to get it for having the lamest palate in North America, but now she’s going to ream me for being a total bitch at the “pastry cream” class.

I tentatively approached her.

“Yes?” I said meekly, prepared for the worst.

“Jules, I need to know. Was I totally rude?”, she whispered.

All I could think about was how sh*tty I felt last class.

“Uhh, What?” I replied in all of my eloquence.

“To Linda,” she said.  “Was I too rude?”

Oh thank God. It wasn’t about me! She was looking for some sort of sorority-like bonding moment.

My reply…

a bold, flat, ” I don’t think you were rude enough.”

She nodded happily in my direction,

For one weird, sick moment we were on the same page.

Dinner!

I missed the class before Independence Day. It was Game. Yuck.

People have been trying to get me to Saddle Peak Lodge, Josie’s and Manka’s Inverness Lodge.  I always gracefully bow out. They are famous for their Venison and Buffalo preparations. For some odd reason, I’m more comfortable eating a raw octopus tentacle than a perfectly prepared venison steak surrounded by blah blah blah reduction with a puree of blah blah blah and garnished with an essence of locally-grown blah blah blah.

Forgive me.

So, when I woke up on the morning of the Game Class, I was less than excited to go. I went about my daily routine giving myself a mental pep talk: Go! It’ll be a new adventure, regardless of how disgusting it is.

I dressed the kids and fed them their breakfasts. Joe wrangled the big girls into the car and took them to summer day camp. I promptly began cleaning the house as Hannah watched the Wiggles.  While I was carrying out the trash through my downstairs bathroom, I noticed something  from the corner of my eye. There was something floating in the toilet.

“Jesus. What part of ‘flush’, do these kids not understand?!” I thought to myself.

But when the peripheral glance became a full on examination, I discovered a giant RAT floating, dead and bloated in my toilet. Yes. That’s right! RAT!

HHHHHHHHHHHeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeelllllllllllllllllllllllppppppppppppppppp!

I threw down the trash and ran out of the bathroom, slamming the door behind me. I immediately called Joe, who to this day has Post-traumatic Stress Disorder from the “rat in the driveway incident of 1997″.  The tone of my voice led him to believe that the Manson family had come into the house and was trying to kill me.

“Oh my God! Oh my God!” I yelled into the phone while trying to catch my breath. It’s a– a– a– giant– rat in the toilet!”

He was so relieved to know that it was merely a rat and promptly began to mock me. Isn’t marriage great?

Relief, however, turned to trepidation when I informed him that he needed to come home on his lunch hour and dispose of it. The mocking ceased.

I grabbed Hannah and drove as far from the house as possible. We spent the next couple of hours at the beach in Ventura. There are no rats on a beach. Right?

When I returned to the house, Joe was gray, trembling and struggling for breath in our driveway. He was wearing a hat, goggles, face mask, work boots, work gloves and a leather jacket.  The rat had been removed.

The Rat Hunter

The hypothesis is that it was trapped in the sewer, died and made its way to our toilet bowl.

Ironic, that in these damn low-flush toilets (now mandatory in California), that take at least two flushes to swallow a piece of paper,  somehow a dead five-pound rodent can make it through.

Neither Joe nor I ate for two days. This is the first time I’m actually able to talk about it.

So when it was time to grab my syllabus and recipe chart, the thought of cooking up rabbit just struck too close to home. I totally flaked on class.

Oh, and by the way, for Christmas this year, Joe and I would love a new pair of bbq tongs.