Half willingly, half winningly

ive told you before, and i will insist upon it again: cooking competitions are not my thing. For a few reasons, really:

- i cant stand people watching me, it makes me claustrophobic
- i cook to de-stress...not visa versa

ok, so that is only two reasons, but they seem sufficient enough explanation for why i am not shooting to be on Iron Chef one day. Yet tonight i found myself competing; half willingly (to make a long story short), and half enjoyably (to be honest).

The comp was for Junior Chefs (a category i will fit into for the next 3 months...), put on by Alexis de Portneuf cheeses as part of Okanagan Fall Wine Fest. The task: create a plate that showcases one or more of three of AdP's cheeses, paired with a local wine. Chef judges, 150 people voting for popular choice, me with an insistance on doing a dessert.

Risky business to begin with, as each of the three cheeses (an ash-rind goat, crumbly yet soft blue, and --my choice--wash rind brie style) are horribly pungent (ok, pleasantly--but adamantly--pungent). But i made it work. Enough to win second place, at least.

i will save you the details of the competition, save only to say that i made carrot cake, and that i was damn proud of it.

Really, it was great; a chance to express myself creatively and put myself into a dish, to witness peoples content and enjoyment from my little cake (the first thing i missed, and still so do, once i began cooking for strangers behind kitchen doors), to feel the energy of that room of people who love food, reminding me without intent, that i do too. And hey, they loved my food...bonus.

So i am tired and hungry (you dont have a chance, really, to try your competitors dishes whilst plating your own), but feeling so damn happy about the whole thing and how not a disaster it was. Didnt hyperventalate once. Doesnt mean i will do it again...at least not more than half willingly.

And the remaining carrot cakes: dinner. Wine paired. Winner.

One for the books

I have wanted to write a cookbook ever since i started to legitemately (read: get paid for) cook. For nearly four years now, i have scrawled down what i am eating for dinner so that it might be transformed into my own recipe in what i hope will be an epic collection. So far these food stained bits of paper have made it into an also food stained manila tag envelope marked "for cookbook." And there they have sat for nearly four years. The food stains are no longer identifiable.

So this year, i decided to change tactic, inspired by Nigel Slaters brilliant "Kitchen Diaries." I would record each day/night, good/bad what i cooked/ate, into the very body (a petit hardcover journal) of my "cookbook." It would be a seasonal log of the year replete with sketches and anecdotes, and best of all, the journalistic devotion would help find this since dreamed of book complete by the beginning of the next quattro of seasons. Not quite. Not at all, actually. In fact, now there is only a new collection of food stained scraps of paper. The only difference is that these ones have dates, so that someday they may be placed in some sort of logical order as if recorded as happened.

"Someday," indeed. There will be a someday, i am sure. And perhaps some of those scrawls, however long ago, will be included. At least this one will be (and food stain free):

Zuchinni (sorta) Carbonara

My ma told me that someone told her that if you, gardenless, do not end up eating some free zuchinni at least once all summer, then you have no friends. Harsh, it seems, but for anyone who has ever rang a doorbell and ran like hell, leaving a box of rather large zuchinni on someones front step, you know how generous the season can be. One of my favorite ways to deal with the abundance:

In a large pan, gently soften:
1/2 spanish onion, small dice
2 large cloves garlic, minced

Add and saute:
2 cups thinly sliced zuchinni (use the mandolin--its easy peasy)
generous pinch of dried chili flakes
even more generous pinch of sea salt

Meanwhile, boil enough pasta, preferably a long noodle like linguine, but if you live for penne, go for it, for four. Toss aldente pasta with the tender zucchi and a good handful of chopped Italian parsley. Splash in some white wine, and continue cooking pasta for just a minute or so. Crack four eggs over the lot, and toss to cook completely. Drizzle with gentle extar virg olive oil, and a hefty grating of parm or pecorino. Breakfast or dinner. Or immediately after the drop-and-dash-doorbell...

ps: i call this "sorta" carbonara, because the chefs i staged with in van would scoff at this for too many reasons to list here. Primarily, the lack of smoked pork and use of the whole egg. In my defense, this recipe was created, like too many others, for a post work, 1030 ish, starving for comfort and nutrition, plus just plain starving, dinner. So it is not authentic, but damn is it tasty.

Breadwinner

Chef once told me he loves to ask potential employees what they love to cook most; loves, that is, to watch them debate uncomfortably for the answer that he might want: something complex? credible? German? Without hesitation, i answered "bread" (to which he replied, laughing, "well, wrong place for you then, not happening").

So i bake bread on my days off, because it truly is the most enjoyable thing for me to create (risotto is a close second; it forces me to slow down, and softening garlic and onions is pure therapy). Today was a day off. And i baked bread.

It is not just something i do for kicks though, I am forever intrigued and frusterated with bread baking. The more i learn and understand, the more i hate to fail. And fail i do; my gosh do i fail. A number (any number, you choose, i cant bring myself to count) of loaves have been near inedible, yet eaten in spite, dense, burnt, off-ly sour, spongy, crust so thick your knife bends...but then there are the loaves that work. That rise dome like and have craterish holes in a solid crumb and crisp crust. Chewy, sour, rippable. Bread dreams are made of.

Tonights bread was not dream-worthy. Nor was it a nightmare. An unpleasant dream perhaps, the type you half remember, and even though you woke disconcerted from it, you still want to remember the details. Anyways, i know what went wrong, and that to me, is as satisfying as it is frusterating as a perfect loaf.

I overproofed the dough on the second rise. Following too closely to the directions and ignoring my gut feeling and experience, i let it go for an hour after i felt it was in need of retarding. And although it still rose perfectly, the inside was coarse, the holes like that of a sponge, instead of the type you can peer through that i love. Texture wise, it was horribly disappointing, especially after a day devoted to it; especially especially since i knew i was messing it up when i began to mess it up. Taste wise, however, it was perfect. I made it from a new culture, one that called for rhubarb and yogurt (from "beyond nose to tail"), and the tang, which was like a brief but very noticable prick from a pin, came almost as an afterthought. Like it was saying: hey betcha thought i was just bread. Well, surprise, i am a wild yeast sourdough with a lousy crumb. And i love him because of it.

It was still therapy, just like making many pots of shitty risotto was relaxing and enjoyable. Theres always toast.

Prioritizing

One of the worst things about this past winter in Van was missing the year-round farmers market. Last season in Kelowna, i swear i lived off of stored root vegetables (so many carrots...) yet never tired of them. More rutabaga was consumed in three months than in my entire life until then. In five years i had missed maybe three market days, if that, and working at the Kelowna one last year solidified my devotion. Vancouver filled me up with California, and i immediately took up my cheaters version (there's a few self-allowed exceptions: we cant grow coffee here, after all, but we do roast a mean bean) of the 100 mile diet, and the farmers market would be, again, my grocery shop for the week. Except this saturday.

Or perhaps all saturdays for the rest of the spring/summer/fall. Why, after just moving home to the provinces largest outdoor market, would i give it up so soon? Because i have to pick lettuce. At five thirty in the morning. At the farm that will eventually be mine. Because i have to show that i am devoted to the farm where i will pick my lettuce one day and many many days to come. It will be hard. I may even try to head there after three hours of picking greens. I will have to, eventually, for the heirloom beans that we dont grow. And honey. And pluots. Oh goodness, jsut wait for the pluots! I will definately go for the pluots. And probably much more.

I will definately not be going tomorrow, and i will certainly miss it. I love the feeling there as much as the seasonally contributed produce, love my market basket, and the early morning start. But tomorrow i need to sow my devotion, and weed instead of shop, plant instead of visit; need to make the farming life my life. And go into town on wednesday to get more honey.