Apparently, persons close to me were concerned that I was depressed. I guess when you call yourself a failure people get concerned. (Jot that down for future reference).

I explained that self-deprecating humor is an ironic device that writers use in prose to make the audience feel engaged and somewhat more comfortable, while easing the tension from the drama built by the subject matter itself. That was lost on the person concerned… and I think I have an appointment with “Dr. You’re-not-a-failure-give-me-a-hug” next week…

Actually things are moving along.

So, the culmination of this fantasy/nightmare class is the graduation banquet. We are to cook and serve the most elegant of tasting menus to our guests.

I can’t vouch for the food or the wine, but, it’s my graduation. So, since you’ve been forced to go along on the ride of this long-winded journal… it’s the least I could do to invite you.

So, the invites will arrive in the next few days. It’s $85 a plate, and although the net proceeds go to charity, I think it’s an exorbitant amount.

Please don’t feel compelled to come.  I know you all support me in everything I do. Whether it’s changing a diaper, changing a tire or changing my life, I am “truly blessed” to have such a great support system.

The best thing about being surrounded by people who tell you that “you’re not living up to your true potential” is that you can make them a sandwich, and they’ll tell you that you’re a ‘genius’. Nice.

Just a perk I guess of being a professional failure.

So, blah blah blah. The invites are out.

I hope you all come, and I hope no one comes.

I’m shy and nervous and stressed.

It could go either way.

Meanwhile. I’m just proud that for the first time in ten years…  (Hannah’s shoving her lollipop in my face, “Look Mommy. Purple. It’s purple. See the purple. Thank you mom, mom it purple. Yay.)

I’ve done something for me. As small as it is, it’s huge.

Although I was really looking forward to trying everyones appetizers, the majority of the bites passed were disappointing.

I began to wonder if we had all been in the same class.

I tested and served 17 recipes at my cocktail party, and I came away with two bites that were modified a couple of times. That’s a lot of  work.

I’m not sure anyone else worked as hard.

I sat down next to NGL at the wine tasting class and was lucky to enjoy suffered through such culinary delights as…

Bruschetta. No I’m not kidding. Yes, in the summer we all love it. It’s really good, but I think you can go to Howard Johnson’s and order bruschetta now.

We had at least three bruschettas.

Ceviche on Frito Lay White Corn tortilla strips. I began to feel like I was living in some separate reality.

Fritatta bites. Yuck! They were jammed with mint leaves. What part of mint do people not understand? First of all, mint gets stuck in your teeth. Secondly,it is the flavor of toothpaste.

When was the last time you stood in the supermarket asking yourself, “Hmmm. Should we have fennel and citrus vinaigrette dental floss or roasted garlic with truffle butter dental floss?” Probably never. Because those are the flavors of food… the last thing you want to floss your teeth with is food! Right? So conversely, the last thing you want to bite into at a cocktail party is an overcooked egg that tastes like Colgate.

While the passing of all these crappy hors d’ouevres was happening… a man from the local wine shop was lecturing about wines.

Although he looked like Weird Al Yankovich, he was actually pretty knowledgable. I tasted some great new things. My favorite was a Pinot Blanc (I know. A break from Chard.)  from Willakenzie in Oregon. It was hands down the most complex white that I had ever approached.

And it tasted great.

I waited with bated breath for the Pringle with Onion Dip to be presented, but was served such concoctions as gingerbread with some sort of pink aioli and topped with a marinated artichoke heart. Gross.

Then the dates came out…

I was nervous.

Are they hot? Are they crispy? I’m sure everyone’s going to hate them. Serves me right for being so condescending. Oh crap. Oh crap. They look awful. Of course they look awful. They are cured pig wrapped around dried fruit. Yuck!. What am I an idiot? What was I thinking?

Everyone took a bite.

“Whose are these?” definitely gay Cameron yelled out.

“Mine.” I said.

“Well actually they are not mine. They are Suzanne Goin’s from AOC.” Some nodded knowingly, happy and chewing. Some complimented them.  The rest looked at me like I was cement. Overall, though, I think they were well-received.

Next,  we were offered a dried apricot jammed with a piece of blue cheese… and as if our mouths weren’t scared enough, there was a half a walnut pressed into it.

Help me God.

Finally a reprieve.

Creamy smoked trout topped with shaved green apples on pumpernickel squares. The look,  flavors and textures were perfect.

I was so happy.

“Whose is this?” definitely gay Cameron asked. What? Is he taking a survey?

Lo and behold it was the Home-schoolers.

For some “unknown” reason I was totally irritated. It was delicious… and I don’t even like smoked trout or apples or pumpernickel.

But Chef chimed from the back of the room:

“Sabrina? Did you bake the pumpernickel yourself?”

“Umm. No.” She replied.  “Everything else I made from scratch by myself, though.”

It fell on deaf ears.

Weird Al was still swirling, sniffing, swishing and babbling.

“Who makes their own pumpernickel?” Sabrina muttered sarcastically through her teeth, just loud enough for everyone around her to enjoy it.

I chortled silently.

Next were my “rustic” mushroom cups. The TA came around to present them. I couldn’t even take a bite. I was too nervous.

“Why don’t you pass them around first. I’m afraid there’ll not be enough,” I said. Although I was lying, I must have looked pretty confident because she smiled at me and moved along.

Nobody said a thing.

Not one damn thing.

We all went to the next Australian big red and faced forward.

The mushroom cups were a failure.

Several more happy-hour-at- the- Embassy-Suites- culinary-delights were passed around until Weird Al finally poured the last glass and it was time to go.

We all began to gather our things and thank him.

Suddenly, Chef appeared again.

“Jules. The mushrooms. They were wild?”

“Umm. Yeah.”

“Was that truffle oil?”

“Umm. Yeah.” (At the last moment, in a desperate act of great self-doubt, I added a drop to the mushrooms)

The parmesan?”

“Uhh. Reggiano.”

“Oh. Okay”

As I went to pack up, she began rifling through my things. The TA stood guard. As she pulled out the miniature bottle of truffle oil and examined the brand she asked, “Where did you buy this?”

“Bristol Farms,” I answered.

“May I ask how much it is?”

“Seventeen. I think.”

“SEVENTEEN DOLLARS?” the TA bellowed.

The Chef just nodded.

Damn. I blew it with the truffle oil.

I arrived in class just as the wine tasting course was about to begin.

I brought my food to the TA’s. They had lists and food everywhere. They jotted my name onto the bottom of the list. They wanted to know what I was serving, how they should prepare it and how I wished them to present it.

On top of the covered sheet pan of bacon-wrapped dates sat the platter I chose from home and the e-mail correspondence I had with Suzanne Goin. I felt totally solid about it.

For the rustic mushroom cups I had the filled mini muffin tin, but no recipe or instructions. Time was short since our lecturer was getting ready to begin. I grabbed a piece of scrap paper and quickly wrote: Bake mushroom cups at 400 degrees for ten minutes or until golden. Let cool slightly.  Top with a shave of Parmesan and a sprig of fresh thyme.

They nodded, and I quickly found an open seat next to NGL.

Before the lecturer began Chef got up and began discussing our final. Jesus! I’m in the middle of my damn midterm! And we’re already talking about the final?

Our final is a banquet. We will invite our families to The Sherwood Country Club for several courses of beautiful and delicious food. That sounded great to me. I couldn’t wait to go, but then I started getting the gist.

We were DOING the banquet.

We had to come up with 6 courses to prep, cook and present. Oh sh*t!  That seemed so daunting after all the stress I went through over thirty bacon-wrapped dates and thirty “rustic” mushroom cups, that I began to feel nauseated.

We’re screwed.

We voted on the Executive Chef. Four people nominated themselves: NGL (well actually, Alice, Ashley, Sabrina and I put him up to it. (He was reluctant but smiling), Bridget the bitchy Brit who was rolling her eyes at me at the Wednesday class, Bigfoot (No, I’m not kidding), and Amber.

Amber lives two blocks away. Her kids went to the same school as mine (she has the same spread, but hers are thirteen years older. She plays Bunko with Lucy’s teacher, so I’m always nice to her.  But, she’s too direct and talks too much, and I always feel like she’s putting me down).

They each gave a campaign speech.

Lance’s was very informative, concise and exactly to the point. Just what I want in a leader.

Bridget the Brit Bitch gave an endearing speech about being working class, coming to America, blah blah blah… she’s devoted the last ten years to her kids (sounds familiar). Now it’s time for her to do something for herself (I hear that). She was apprehensive to start this course because she was afraid that she might learn that food was not something she was good at (I reached to my bag for a tissue). Being the Chef de Cuisine for this banquet would teach her so much and finally give her the recognition she’s been longing for (I almost had to excuse myself).

So maybe she’s not so bad.

For a Brit.

Bigfoot said (and I’m paraphrasing), “Just in case you didn’t get it that I’m really crazy, I’m going to blabber on for a really long time about crazy things that confuse you and make you feel really uncomfortable… and bored.”

Never stops talking

Then Amber spoke. She basically said that she was just going for this job because the Brit refused to do it without her. She has catered events from 100 to 2000. She’s comfortable creating menus and analyzing them logistically regarding prep time and difficulty in presentation. She has years in the industry and has a great relationship with the hotel and feels very solid about producing an event there.

Well, I thought, there’s no way in hell I’m voting for her. If she’s catered events for 2000 people than what the hell is she doing here in this little class?

The nominees left and we cast secret ballots.

I was front row, so when they counted them, I could actually read them. Bridget got the most.

It was close between Amber and NGL, I was starting to get nervous. Oh please God let it be NGL.

The final nominee, Bigfoot, had one vote. I’m surmising that it was her own, but you never know.

The winners were announced: NGL and The Brit were our Chefs De Cuisine.

Okay.

It’s Saturday night. The kids are asleep. Joe’s asleep. The dogs are asleep. I can’t sleep.

I’m turning on the TV.

First stop: Roseanne… the domestic goddess. Funny, but no.

Second stop: Iron Chef. What’s the secret ingredient? The smoke is flowing on the stage. The majestic music crescendos. What could it be? Shark Fin? Sea Urchin? Oh. They went to commercial.

Wow. JC PENNEY is having a sale. Excedrin now has a medicine specifically for tension headaches. Great.  Oh. Richard Marx is coming out with a new CD. Available now. Swiffer Wet Jet now has a “scrubbing head”. I’ve got to write that down. Oh. I just did.

But, when you’re done you can just throw the pad away. Go to www.swiffer.com for more info.

Back to Iron Chef. What’s the ingredient????  Kaga says, “LLLLLAAAAAAAMMMMMBBBBB!!!!!!!!”

Boring.

Ooh. Tavis Smiley. We love him.

Naw.

Weather Channel.  It’s going to be hot here. Yup.

The Simpsons. Wow. Must be an old one. It’s grainy.

Good background for writing.

So, getting back to my midterm, my mushroom cups needed to be kicked up a notch (as Emeril would say). I was obsessing on it.

My first thought is always Bleu Cheese. So that’s the first thing I tasted. Bad pairing. The Bleu was Pt. Reyes Original Blue, my favorite. It’s from Farmstead Cheese Co. in Marin.

So good!

Try to find it and simply spread it on a piece of bread. You’ll cry. However, it was so powerful, it  just wiped away all trace of flavor from the mushrooms and Madeira. Not going to work.

I stared at the mushrooms almost begging them to tell me what they want.

Suddenly the spoke to me…

Well, actually, since mushrooms can’t talk, I decided on the only failsafe thing in the world of food.

Parmesan!

Yum

Parmigiana Reggiano. If it helped the dates, maybe it would be kind to the mushrooms, too.

I pulled a wedge from the fridge and grabbed the OXO veggie peeler.

Marge and Homer are kissing and Mo is crying.

A crisp clean shave of Parm on top of a spoonful of the mushrooms. Was it going to be enough?

I took a taste.

Oh yeah! That is good.

0% Financing on a new Jetta. Wow. That’s a great deal.

Oh crap. Now it’s Drew Carey. I need to scan. Celebrity Justice. No. Will and Grace. Jesus! Can’t that show just go into cable syndication and leave us alone? How many fag hag jokes are there?

Oh. I found it. The Rockford Files.

A show that makes us all want to live in a trailer in Malibu.

The parm/mushroom pairing was perfect, but it needed garnish. I was thinking some thyme from the garden might work.

Phyllo cups with wild mushrooms in a Madeira reduction garnished with Parmagiana  and a sprig of fresh thyme.

Perfect! I finally knew what I was going to present to the wine tasting class. I felt relieved and fell asleep.

On Sunday morning, Mom came to babysit, and I headed to school. It was the big day!

Class, then meeting, then winetasting class with midterm presentations. Whew!

Class was fun.  The topic: pizza and designer pasta.

Pizzas… (one trick: don’t cook your sauce. It will cook on the crust raw, cook it ahead and  it will burn). My creation: shrimp, tomato sauce, goat cheese and basil. It was really good. Although the basil looked horrible after being in the hot oven.  Always add it after cooking.

Even the 17 year-old kid next to me, warned me. But I spent ten minutes arranging it decoratively anyway. Just as he said, it turned brown and shriveled up.  But I garnished it with so much chiffonade of fresh basil after the fact, that my mistake was almost hidden. It tasted so good to me. I was happy.

Chef didn’t like it.

What else is new?

Cameron was also taking this class today. I met him at the Wednesday class. He’s definitely gay, and so cute. He totally looks familiar. After we went through every possible connection and almost connection that we have, we figured out that we’re just one degree of separation from each other. I have a sneaking suspicion we’ll figur out where we know each other from eventually. In the meantime, he’s really fun. He and Lu, another gal in the class were cracking me up! It was a fun class. California pizza or not.

After six other dishes and a bunch of clean up, I headed home to prep my hors d’oeuvres.

I only had twenty minutes to make it back before the meeting.

I drove home like a bat out of hell, ran in the house and darted for the kitchen. I ripped the phyllo from the fridge. I attempted to, with my pizza cutter, make perfect squares dredged in melted butter to tuck into my mini muffin pan, but the girls were climbing all over me. They thought I was home for the day. They couldn’t figure out why I was rushed, annoyed, freaking out and trying to get back out the door. The squares quickly turned into decahedrons.

They are “rustic”, I told myself.

I prepped them all, and draped a damp towel over them. I loaded the sheet pan of dates into the car.  I grabbed my full mini-muffin tin of rustic mushroom cups, a wedge of parm and my peeler. I ran to the garden and ripped the thyme from the ground, roots intact. I was ready to go.

I kissed the girls goodbye. They couldn’t figure out what was happening, and I felt really bad about leaving them again. And in a tremendous moment of great self-doubt, I ran back to the kitchen and grabbed the tiny 1/2 oz. bottle of white truffle oil.

More later…

8/27/04 The Midterm

“We’re waiting with bated breath”, is how Ellen described (several weeks ago) how it felt to wait for the results of my midterm exam.  I’m sorry.  Things have been somewhat chaotic here.

It’s so funny. When you’re in the middle of spring and your kids are in elementary school, you can’t wait for summer to come. Oh the carefree days of summer, when you get to sleep in everyday.

You lounge by the pool before you decide to throw KC and the Sunshine Band into your car stereo and head for the beach. You frolic in the sand until sunset like Gidget, and then head home in time for a warm shower. You throw on a flattering sundress and gather at the patio furniture as your husband grills up a great steak.

Oh Those Summer Nights!

The reality is that your kids are home all day, “BORED”. And although you have to pry them out of bed on a school day, they somehow greet the sun every morning at 6:00 am with an enthusiastic smile in the summer.

The pool is too cold and really stressful because you’re trying to keep all of the kids, especially the two year-old from drowning.

The beach is too far. And it’s really crowded. It’s $10 a day to park at Zuma. We all end up sunburned.

Joe’s been traveling much of the last 6 weeks. But, Baja Fresh grills a good steak. Too bad that it is 4000 calories.

So, anyway. Blah blah blah. Excuses.

Here’s what happened on my midterm.

Our assignment was to show up to our midterm class which was also our wine tasting class, with two hors d’ouevres to be passed and graded. It was a special class scheduled for a Sunday evening. I was traveling to my sister’s the following week, so I opted to take the Sunday make-up class from 9 – 2, then attend our banquet/graduation planning meeting at 3, and then this midterm class at 5. I was happy that there would be wine involved.

The new schedule meant that the oysters just weren’t going to work. The logistics were tough. Keeping the oyster cold, prepped and ready to broil…I don’t know. Actually it probably would have been fine. But, it made me nervous.

I decided to go with the mushroom phyllo cups. They were not a favorite at my tasting, but I loved them. The look and the taste– I knew they had potential. I decided to take them up a notch.

Joe and I spent that Saturday night cooking, tasting and prepping. It was really fun. The iPod was cranking out tunes. The kids were dancing, Joe and I were sipping our wines, all the while sauteeing mushrooms and wrapping dates in bacon.  It was a really fun night.

Morels. Another tastes-better-than-it-looks treat.

When it was done, I had Button, Cremini, Porcini mushrooms and Morels glazed in a Madeira (not the cooking Madeira, but a beautiful Madeira that Ellen gave me for my birthday) reduction in a Tupperware in the fridge.

What the hell was I going to do with those mushrooms, although delicious on their own, to take it up a notch?

It needed to be good. I bought some Truffle Oil the day before, hoping to be inspired. But, I was still lost.

I decided (well the wine decided) that I should “sleep on it”.

I brought my laptop to Tahoe. For six days it sat on the counter, and I’ve been trying to remember why I brought it. There’s no internet access here on the north shore of one of the most beautiful lakes in the world. What the hell did I lug this thing up here for? I think it was to catch up on all of the posts that are piling up in my Drafts file. What else would I do on my vacation?

We’ve biked, boated, swam, made sand castles, and lost the key to our rental car in the Truckee River.

Yeah. You know. Vacation.

The laptop has sat here so bored that I think I actually caught it trying to pour itself a drink.

It’s been a great vacation. We’ve spent some really great times together. That’s something Joe and I have both needed and the girls craved too.

But, we got bad news.

Arthur is sick.

He is like my second father.

He has been my true North much of the last thirty years. Granted his compass usually is pointed  Southwest.

He told me to go to USF. He even came to Parent’s Weekend. He sat patiently as I asked him, “Is San Francisco an island? Everywhere I go there is water.” (These are the words of a twenty year-old that  never strayed far from Santa Monica, where the shore was always to the West.)

I’m sure he thought I was an idiot. But he calmly explained that San Francisco was the tip of a peninsula.

In the following few years I lived there he took me and various random boyfriends, and then eventually Joe and me, to the best places in the city. He taught us the city. And what an amazing subject to learn.

He sat in the first row as we were married. He sat next to our  priest at the rehearsal dinner.

He held Lilly for two hours in my living room after her baptism, as I tried to make brunch for forty people. He showed Lucy the Statue of Liberty from the balcony of his apartment in Chelsea.

He has been my muse for these incessant e-mails.

He laughed so hard at the first that I felt inspired to continue. His encouragement keeps me writing.

He coined the term “Not Gay Lance”, in the way only a good queen could. Oh yeah…and there were a million questions to boot. “What does he look like? What color is his hair? Does he have hair?”

The best gift for an aspiring writer is to find an audience, and sometimes it needs only to be audience of one.

He has encouraged me to do this food thing. To write about this food thing.

And ironically, he is laying in ICU at Baltimore General.  The cause?

Apparently, food poisoning.

It figures.

He’s been intubated for a week… but the tube will come out tomorrow. He’s expected to recover fully. Mom is there. I want to be there, but I know he would just be mad. He would want me to be taking care of my kids, taking my classes and writing dumb missives about it.

And doing what I am doing now. Staring into the glow of my laptop and overhearing Joe and Lilly and Lucy sitting on the deck, watching the reflection of the moonlight on the lake. Joe’s trying to explain to them the difference between a planet and a star and even perhaps the difference between a peninsula and an island.

Wow. The last month has been intense. I have three saved drafts in my e-mail folder that either suck, or I just couldn’t finish because I was too busy. This may be number four since the girls are in the den calling each other names. Nothing says ‘let’s talk about food’ like the ambient noise of a five year-old calling her sister a “big giant dog poop”. Nice.

Obviously, I am a great mom.

The last month has been tiring but great.

July 19 –Appetizers

Fun class. We prepared several appetizer recipes from our textbooks.

Smoked Salmon Mousse in Cucumber Cups topped with caviar-My big faux pas… “Do you have to put the caviar on at the very end so that it doesn’t bleed?” sounding so official. “This caviar will not bleed. Only cheap caviar bleeds because it is dyed black.”  (Imagine scowling gaze now).  I ate three.

Shrimp toasts-those yummy things you have at dim sum. Shrimp, ginger, onion, egg white to bind, put on white bread… dipped in breadcrumbs and deep-fried. I ate about four hundred of these. Each one bathed lavishly in a pineapple sweet and sour sauce.  I had to unbutton my XL cargo pants. Nice.

Southwestern quiche-I know. She originally called this creation “Taquitos”, but the name change allowed her to charge twice as much per bite. Personally, I think she could change the name of this appetizer to “George” and still make money. They are basically custard…egg, heavy cream, Monterey jack and chiles baked in crispy tortilla cups… topped with a dollop of guac or salsa or sour cream. Oh my GOD! They were amazing.  I want to do one with crab, corn, jack and green chiles. I could top it with anything… you’ll die. They made them with smoked chicken and roasted pepper topped with guac. Even though I’m not a fan of smoked chicken, they were really amazing.  I wish I was in that group. I ate 22.

Blinis-those little Russian pancakes. They are usually topped with caviar. Home-schooler made them and somehow she messed  the whole thing up. *hee hee*. They were like little flattened lead balloons topped with caviar and creme fraiche. Bummer. But since my pants were already unbuttoned, I had 47.

Alice and I made spring rolls and shu mai.

Shu Mai

Most of you know how passionate I am about my shu mai. These were great. Chef even praised my assembly. Yeah, I know, stop the presses. I ate 20 of each.

The weird extra recipe from the book was the “Mini Reuben”. Sauerkraut, Russian dressing and corned beef on Rye grilled in butter (of course) and cut into bite sizes speared with toothpicks.  As Lance and John grilled and plated them, I glanced over and laughed to myself arrogantly. They looked so “home-style”, not at all fussy like the rest of our bites.

I ate 12 of them.

Jesus! They were the best thing I’ve ever eaten.

When I came home… pants now unbuttoned and unzipped (luckily I wasn’t pulled over), I felt so disgusting.  Mom and Joe feasted on the leftovers (less than a dozen bites between them). I glared at them.  How could they eat so much?

All of my calories for 2004 were consumed that night, so I swore I would never eat again.

Well, at least until breakfast.

Jules

What a day. I spent last night trying to convince my brother-in-law to flee Tampa and head inland to Orlando. He was steadfast in his resolve to ride out Hurricane Charley in Tampa. I awoke to the horror of Charley being upgraded to a Category 4 hurricane. All I could see were the ruins left behind from Andrew. I was terrified for him.

Staring at the news, the anchor broke away from the storm coverage to announce breaking news. “Julia Child has died in her sleep at her home in Santa Barbara. She was 91.”

Oh my God.

My heart sank to the floor.

She’s one of my greatest heroes. And what a hero she was.

She brought the art of French cooking to an America that was busy making Jell-o molds and lunching at McDonalds.

There is a young writer who has on the web documented her own self-study of “Mastering the Art of French Cooking”. She has carefully studied and tested each recipe, page by page, in her home kitchen. A noble pursuit that we should all undertake.

But more than that, the noble pursuit we should all undertake is trying to live our lives like Julia lived hers.

Another pat of butter, a good cheeseburger, another glass of wine. All with a smile, knowing that we have worked hard to give America back its greatest cultural asset… the dinner table.

Growing up in a generation that has become afraid of its food, afraid of its wine and too busy to sit together at the dinner table, I’ve tried so hard to bring her philosophy into my home.

She was an amazing woman. She didn’t even take her first cooking course until she was 37. It took her and her co-authors more than 10 years to publish that first book. That’s quite amazing to me. My generation is convinced that if you’re not an executive by 30, you’re not a true success. An idea, by the way, that leaves most women who choose to spend their twenties changing diapers, feeling quite discouraged and depressed. A-hem.

She transcended all of those ideas. Whether she was standing tall at 6’2″ on her first cooking series, or hunched over laughing with Jacques Pepin 30 years later she showed Americans what it truly means to follow your dreams. Live your life. Do what you are meant to do. And absolutely enjoy it all.

Rich is fine. He made the right choice to hunker down. Charley turned a quick right into Ft. Meyers and missed Tampa, and descended hard on Orlando.

Thank God he’s okay.

Let’s all hope Julia is okay too. I’m sure she’s toasting all of us with a generous pour of wine and a wonderful cheeseburger.

Jules

1912 - 2004