Epiventures

And so it seems I’ve finished my third term at the Midwest Culinary Institute. And now I’m sitting at home feeling a tinge of whiplash.

It’s funny the way time moves. You don’t notice when it’s happening but all of a sudden you look across the room. The chair you have always known has changed neighborhoods three times since you bought in the thrift store, virtually weaseled it out of someone’s hands who didn’t know it was a vintage Eames.

All the junk that bothers you, that’s not put in its place—the shoes hastily thrown in the corner. The mail that got dropped from the table. The empty coffee cups on the sink. Suddenly you let yourself realize that it’s the stuff that you’ve built your life around. And then suddenly it’s not junk anymore.

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Summer held on long enough this year for me to give it a big, sloppy kiss. I love you, summer, and if I didn’t prove it already with a brand new garden and an upgraded lawn mower then this weekend sealed the deal.

It was one of those impromptu dinners — the kind that start with a lazy “let’s stay in tonight” and end with scraped plates piled in the sink and windows cracked over the bed.

We sat in our rickety wooden chairs outside while we grilled on the Weber and let the bug candles light the way. All the while, of course, Dustin sipped his Campari and soda and I concocted a way to extend my bourbon sipper to the salmon. As it turns out, coupled with brown sugar and soy sauce, bourbon becomes a bright, Southern sort of marinade.

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Fish out of water, as the saying goes, brings to mind a big, crazy looking creature, thrashing from side to side on the beach, struggling for his next breath. This, people, is why I hesitate to compare myself to one. I really much prefer you imagine me strutting around in the kitchen, chopping things here, saucing things there, earning the respect of everyone around. But I’ll be honest — that big, crazy fish? That was me the other night. That big crazy fish? That’s me all the time lately.

I wrote a feature article about Chef Julie Francis a few months back without the slightest inclination that I would later be asking to work in her kitchen. But that’s just what happened. Last week, I took my first stab as a restaurant cook.

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We have to talk. I’ve been away from Epi-Ventures a lot lately but I can assure you that it hasn’t been in vain. I’ve been collecting stories, you see, and in the process I’ve been eating and cooking and generally enjoying the heck out of myself. This little blog-that-could has turned things upside down on this side of the screen and its changed my path in almost every way imaginable.

Not only has it been the catalyst for a very fine restaurant apprenticeship (which started last night) but it has led me somewhat blindly and very enthusiastically into a different side of the marketing industry. When I’m not clanging pots and pans or agonizing over simmering sauces, I’ll be packing my lunch and writing full-time at this agency.

It’s tempting to think that these new opportunities are a result of me and me alone but truth is really much more simple. They’ve come because of you, because of your participation in my journey and because of your encouragement. I am full of gratitude and friends, if I may be so bold, I’m starting to think that with you by my side the boundaries are limitless.

Until we meet again.

You seem like the kind of person who likes food. I’m relieved. If you’d landed here for fashion tips we’d both be sorely out of luck. I like food, too, and lately I’m liking it more and more at my kitchen table or sprawled out in front of my TV. Its cheaper there, for one, and then there’s the added bonus of being able to scream at The Real Housewives of New Jersey while hunkering down with a lobster roll.

But after a frazzled day in the office, I haughtily announced that I would “not slave over a hot fire” and that “dinner was up to someone else.” Sorry for the attitude but it ended up being a good thing. That was the night I fell in love with Maribelle (whoever that woman is) because her tavern reminded me how much I adore restaurant food when it’s fresh and clever and better than what I can do at home.

When it opened, I remember the mad dash of foodies that dropped their hot little oven mitts and sprinted over for a sampling. I was not one of them, perhaps because I was shoved behind a desk or still contemplating the idea of culinary school. It’s a pity. All I can think of now are the wasted years — the way I went on with my life, glibly consuming three meals a day, not knowing what stood just around the corner.

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I’m looking at a picture of myself standing in Paris on a bridge with a long, gray river ebbing and flowing under me. I’m ten and I’m wearing a black shirt and a little vest. I keep trying to tell Dustin how fashionable the outfit was for a girl at the time but he throws his head back anyway, barely able to eek out “who is that little man?!”

The snapshot makes me think of what a world-class traveler I was in my youth. From San Francisco to London to Hawaii, I’d paved a lot of ground by twelve. Things are different now that I’m on my own dime and there’s work and school calendars to contend with.

But hold on to your cowboy hats, folks, I’ve carved away some time and I’ve decided to do-si-do over to Nashville for a little weekend adventure! I’ve made Dustin promise that we don’t have to hit every single tourist attraction and instead, I fully intend to make adequate use of my bathrobe. At least when I’m not out eating.

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I was running hard against the dirt, my feet were pounding the ground, my fists were clenched. Everywhere behind me, dust was unearthing itself, flinging in the air and then falling back down in my tracks. My heart beat against my chest, steady like a drum, and then I heard white noise — static — and then nothing. I had been running but I hadn’t moved at all. I was wrapped in my own fuzzy blanket and the clock by the bedside blinked 6:30 a.m. It was time for another day.

Maybe the strange dream was an omen. When the evening rolled around and I was in my full culinary school uniform, my instructor delivered some stunning news. We’d be making chicken chasseur, sole au vin blanc, orange glazed carrots, parsley potatoes and spinach concasse. They’d all have to come out together and when we presented our dishes, our entire stations had to be clean. It was twice the amount of work we usually do and it seemed almost cruel. All at once, I became very aware of my hat and how hard it was squeezing my head. My coat felt thick and heavy.

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I bought my house in Columbia Tusculum from the General Manager of Boca Restaurant. It’s a 130-year old, narrow, painted-lady with wood floors and colorful walls and a growing art collection. It’s small and it’s on a hill that from some angles looks like Mount Everest, but it’s renovated, it’s eclectic and the truth is that I fell in love with the kitchen.

Actually, I would say that I’m in a relationship with my kitchen. We cook together. We throw parties together. Sometimes, we even sing together. It hums a dishwasher song and pipes Miles Davis through its speakers and I clang pots and chop vegetables on a bamboo board. I like to think that separated, my kitchen and I are just okay but together we’re something pretty special.

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You never forget your first fire. I set my first one in a microwave when I was ten by exploding a loaf of bread, which was innocently pre-sliced and still wrapped in plastic. In my defense, I was only trying to set the microwave timer.

I was attempting to time thirty minutes of reading — an assignment from my fourth grade teacher. How was I supposed to know my mother used the microwave as her own personal bread box/storage compartment? And certainly it wasn’t my fault when I hit “time/cook” instead of “hold/timer!”

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I’m coming right out of the gate with an admission. Beware. It’s totally un-french and un-fabulous and if we weren’t hitting it off so well already, I might be too afraid to tell you. I made Sole Meuniere without the Sole. That’s right. Instead, I reached into the fridge and pulled out the only thing I had tucked away — a humble, inexpensive, totally every day variety of fish. Which is to say, I made Sole Meuniere with tilapia.

In France, I imagine I might be executed for this sort of behavior. In America though, I imagine busy people everywhere throwing up their hands and saying, “So what! Be resourceful! I buy my cheese pre-cut and prepackaged!”

This is why I like America.

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