Pat-a-cake, pat-a-cake, baker's man...

I never thought I would say this, but I've come to hate birthday cake. Of course, it is entirely my fault. I was foolish enough to make my godson's cake for his birthday, and now have a list of requests for the rest of the family calendar year. Did I mention that we have had three family birthdays in the past week?

Now, I could understand the enthusiasm if my cakes were a sight to behold. However, the first two were not exactly bakery quality, what with the melting whipped cream icing, sliding layers and other monstrosities. You may be asking yourselves, "what the hell are they thinking?" Alas, kind readers, though my cakes may look less than stellar, they taste really good. Really good. Perhaps my visual mistakes are a Freudian attempt to be free of the job. No such luck. 3 down, 17 to go (18 should I decide to make my own).

I am taking a classical pastry class in the fall to help improve these sad skills of mine. That may not be a very smart move, given that The Family may further procreate, but the perfectionist in me simply cannot have sloppy cakes. I want them to look professional, dammit. And if I can master the creation of fruit tarts made from scratch, then by the gods I can make a perfect birthday cake. Let's see...if I start charging for each cake, I'll have enough for class tuition by summer...

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An Ode to Bread

Bread. The staff of life. It has captured my imagination for the past week, and I am happy to report that my loaves have been unexpectedly successful. I started out with simple wheat and white breads, but yesterday I turned artisan and made rye and pumpernickel. The rye is gorgeous -- it tastes like a genuine, New York Jewish rye. And the smell...it has a sublime but subtle scent of onion that makes me swoon. I sent a loaf to my sister yesterday, fresh from the oven, and as luck would have it she had bought some corned beef that afternoon. I was a rock star.

I really made the rye for my brother Phil, a food connoisseur whose binges could put a pregnant woman to shame. He'll get a craving for a certain taste, and either try to concoct it himself or ask me to find a recipe. He will not rest until the craving is completely satiated. He is actually very handy to have around, because his palate is one of the purest I've ever known. He can taste a dish and name the ingredients and spices without hesitation. At family meals, his is the palate I strive to appease.

Nonetheless, Phil was chagrined to discover that the starter for the rye (the "Rye Sour") had to ferment for a couple of days. He allowed me to take my time, however, for to do otherwise would risk the taste. The first day of fermentation is spent with the sour soaking up the scent and taste of onions that have been secured in cheesecloth and plummeted into the dough mixture. It is very much a living thing -- as I sat reading other recipes I could hear it popping next to me, like a gooey creature ready to suck in whatever dared to draw near. I removed the onions on day two, and could have begun the bread at that point, but I wanted a pungent loaf. I let it sit for two more days, and the wait was well worth it. He hasn't been by to taste it yet. He'd better hurry up.

The pumpernickel loaves were a bit more challenging. They were a pain the ass, really. After cooking the first portion on the stove, which is a heavy mixture of molasses, cornmeal, and other goodies, it is mixed with mashed potato, then the normal bread ingredients. One needs an abundance of patience and forearm strength, neither of which I claim to possess, as well as a willingness to scrub the countertop for 15 minutes after all is said and done. After all that work, the bread is very dense and not an ideal texture. Next time I'll just buy it. But the rye...

On another note, tomorrow night is cooking class #2. Class #1 consisted mostly of familiarizing ourselves with the kitchen and practicing our dicing. I must say, my knife skills are truly an abomination. For the past week I have been practicing all kinds of cuts (luckily, with none on the fingers), and am getting faster. How I long to chop like a pro. Of course, we are using 12-inch knives, which I find more than difficult to use. My wrist and forearm are not of the length to accommodate such a saber, so I may buy my own 10-inch knife and take it with me. Oh, the joy of having limbs the size of a 6th-grader's.

Some people (men in particular) get goose-pimply at the sound of revving engines or power tools. For me, the rush comes from seeing acres of stainless steel arranged like a gigantic playground. The school has an industrial-sized grinder/chopper (swoon) that can make the biggest meatloaf on earth, or can grate 5 lbs. of cheese in seconds flat. I was saddened to discover that we will not be using it for any of our coursework. I got over it when Chef Marc showed us the gigantic Hobart mixer. The bowl is so big, that baby could mix a bath for a small child. I am counting the seconds until I get to flip the switch. There are also myriads of cooking mechanisms (flame, steam, flat-top, convection and broiler-from-hell) as well as enough pots and utensils to satisfy the most particular cook. I can't wait for tomorrow night's class.

The family complaints are starting to pour in, however. Everyone has gained a few pounds in the last six weeks. I take that to be a good sign. :)

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A New Kind of Uniform

Tomorrow night I begin my first formal cooking class. I have spent the past month deep in thought, trying to decide what the next step of my journey will be. After ten years of looking from the outside in, I've decided to take a different kind of journey through the kitchen. I've enrolled in a 9-week course of fundamentals, from knife skills to braising and onward. I'm not sure where this path will lead; perhaps I will end up in culinary school, perhaps these nine weeks will suffice. I have very quickly realized that there are not vast fortunes to be made in food writing -- it is truly a labor of love. Therefore I will need to supplement my income with other projects, and catering or personal chef-ing are appealing avenues.

Over the last 30 days I have spent most of my time in the kitchen, trying to gain a better understanding of food by going back to the beginning. I'm reading "On Food and Cooking" to understand the scientific properties of my ingredients. I am burying my nose in cookbooks trying to perfect everything from fruit tarts to fresh loaves of bread. Some days my kitchen smells like burnt butter, other days it has a magnificent aroma of garlic and sweet onions. This is a helluva lotta fun. :) Without realizing it, I managed to amass a personal food library of well over 100 books, so each time I have a question about a recipe I pull out four or five and compare the techniques and ingredients.

Best of all, I had the opportunity last month to teach a cooking class to a group of 3- and 4-year-old nursery schoolers. One of my best friends manages a day-care center that is very progressive in the depth of learning the children experience, so she agreed to let me incorporate gastronomy into this visit. It was "Shapes and Colors" week, so I decided to teach them the history of pizza, as its colors are a tribute to the Italian flag. They were rapt with attention as I told them the story of Queen Margherita, and we all pretended to make pizzas for the queen. They were very intense as they proceeded to build kiddie-sized pizzas with green broccoli, white mushrooms, red tomatoes and peppers, and of course lots of cheese. One of the boys, now nicknamed "The Stacker," built a pie at least 3 inches high. Turns out he's a big fan of broccoli. He and the others ate every bite of what they created, and put a huge smile on my face as they peeked up from their napping cots to wave goodbye and say "Bye, Miss Jen!" I can't wait for the next lesson.

Did I mention that this is a helluva lotta fun? :)

food writing