There exists a delicate and sacred relationship
between food and diner.
Some more obscure aspects of that relationship lie a good deal farther out than that of, say, the simple act of plucking of a carrot from the soil, giving it a wash under a hose and then taking that first bite. In our day to day lives, and with the current state of supermarkets, few of us connect well enough with food to give more than a brief pause of homage to what we are about to dine upon. Some ritually give thanks to a higher power for the nourishment of their bodies at the evening meal. Some give thanks for the bounty of the harvest, the fruit of the trees, the bread of the earth before every first bite. Some admire the work of an artful chef’s presentation before carefully making their way through an exquisite dish. Some simply load up a plate and chow down. Either way, some form of appreciation for sustenance, whatever form it may take, is a part of the dining process.
One way to gain appreciation for the food before you is not so obvious, and I am about to confront, right in the furry little face. Yup. I am going to pack up my knives and head off to a butcher shop, load up a specially outfitted truck and do the unimaginable. I am going to ride along to do some on-site farm kills and butchering of livestock. Before you go off screaming or thinking I am off my goddamned rocker, read on.
In my religion, the rules of Kashrut (keeping kosher) are pretty simple: Don’t kill an animal within sight of it’s mother, and don’t cook it in it’s mother’s milk. The rules of meat procurement are simply basic rules of respect, actually, not the popular misconception that milk and meat in combination are unhealthy (Bacon double cheese burgers side). In Japan, Kobe beef cows are pampered, fed sweet grasses with a beer chaser, massaged with Sake, sent to the hair stylist, spoiled and given pretty cush lives as compared to our abominable American way of doing beef. The cow is then slaughtered only in Japan in a calm, respectful and customary way, earning the distinction of Kobe before it is shipped back around the world. In Maine, one must kiss a lobster before dispatching it with a swift blade. Its only fair. As a young culinary professional, I think it is my duty to see the proper way to end an animal’s life so as to gain more respect for my dinner.
I hope to spend a few days at The Butcher Shop, learning from their man Brian and the crew. Smoking, sausages, fabricating cuts, maybe even offering a few culinary tips will hopefully be in the cards. I could not meet nicer folks, either. The owner is a delightful and exuberant fella. And his Kobe burger is to die for.
(Note to self, buy five pounds of burger for the trip back to Arkansas.
Yes, they ship.)
Its all fun and games
Since the last post, I have been stretching out a little, making family meal for Joe, Sandy and myself. Its been a comfort to get back behind a saute’ pan and shake it like a maraca. Got to do a few recipes from my final project, and I can say, with some certainty, that there will be a few more bowls of smoked shrimp and grits consumed this winter. I also got to work with brioche dough, went head to head on a Scone-Off, and I have been doing catering cooking in a mobile kitchen, which is a fuckin’ great time. I have more projects lined up for almost every week that I am still here.
Today, I had the immense pleasure of learning cake decorating with a woman named Pam Card out of Jacksonville. With two small rounds already waiting my arrival, I walked into a kitchen full of playthings and toys that made me giddy as hell. Paints, powders, metallic dusts, paintbrushes, sugar paste fondant, frostings and tools as far as I could see. After about ten minutes of sheer terror looking at monstrous wedding cakes in her albums, she gently guided me step by step into the world of decorating. What a totally kick-ass way to be introduced to cakes! A little “off” sense of humor on my part (how out of character…NOT!) yielded a cake with flames, clouds of black smoke, a fondant spoon and whisk with piped tines and the words, “Hell’s Kitchen 2009″ boldly painted upon it. I think my creative demon was finally roused from a twenty year slumber, because all I can think about is how to redo that cake into a bigger, better, faster, sicker version when I get time.
Next experiences on deck after Meat 101:
Craig at The Rogue Creamery will teach me the scoop on making cheddar cheese. I had hoped to make the award winning blue cheese or goat cheese, but they keep it all a heavily regulated and they don’t need some ditzy culinary student prancing around back in the factory, dipping a finger into a vat of cream and hollering, “It needs salt!”.
Jeff at Lillie Belle will let me watch him make chocolate from start to finish. This guy is whacked and I can’t wait to hang with him. Remind me to stock up on his ghost chili truffles… or his bacon chipotle ones… or the blue cheese ones… or…
As a side project, Chef Dave and Chef Paul at Cuisine de Jour, my adoptive culinary big brothers, have been working on The Battle Of The Bones research and development. The annual BBQ competition in Central Point is gonna get rocked by Team Tang. I get to help out with the tasting, and maybe share a little knowledge I picked up from Larry the Smoker from earlier this summer. These guys are such a breath of fresh air and a gas and a half to work with. I owe them a lot of thanks for helping me keep my sense of humor while away from Brian.
Personally speaking
I am nearing the end of my time down here, and it can’t come too soon. Being away from Brian has been a nice exercise in seeing how absence makes the heart grow fonder and all that bullshit, but we are NEVER, EVER pulling a stunt like this again. I am grateful to Brian’s parents for the welcome they have given us three as we make a transition, as well as to Joe and Sandy here at the inn for the opportunities I have been given, but cripes, I really miss my man.
I have made a few new friends, and I must say that this new career finds me far happier and more friendly than before. Hanging with food people is so comforting and familiar, even at my relative youth in the realm. No negative vibes or resentment for my profession dwell within me like I had in medicine- I was trapped because it paid me too well to quit, and that was a suffocation unlike anything I have ever been through. When cooks get together, the line between food and pornography blurs and the heart quickens like a shot of chocolate to the vein. When nurses get together, its all Low Anterior Resections with a ten thumbed surgeon. If I had to make a professional diagnosis, I’d say that an apron looks better on me than scrubs ever did…
My grandparents had a cattle farm complete with orchard and rows of berries and veggie patches and most everything came from their own land. I think I was lucky to have grown up with that knowledge. Although, I have to admit that when I found out that my cow Flipper had probably been a few meals it was a hard pill to swallow.
The experience of visiting the people who raise and create our food is so important. Having a chocolatier sneaking me experimental truffles and petting the goats that gave the milk for my chevre just makes everything taste so much better.
Unless I find a really amazing butcher, I always hit up a kosher or halal butcher. The rules of respect as well as cleanliness are reassuring. I learned this in LI, where butchers without these restrictions . . . well lets just say they had problems.
Good luck chica.
Its been rather therapeutic and gastronomically stimulating to cut meat all day, as you can imagine. The smell in the air just makes me want to whip out a stockpot and go to town!
Everyone I hear from has positive experiences to report from their farm kills, even a dear friend who can communicate with animals said it was a very well done exercise, and that the animal did not suffer. I want to know that the last thing my food saw was a grassy pasture, not some ankle-deep shit pond.
The butchers have been great, even asking for recipes for the grand opening of the new addition to the retail shop. Been scribbling all day long!
Your COW was named Flipper? Umm… does not compute!
I was three when I named him, even wrote a poem.
Flipper the nipper, who wore a red slipper.
I guess it’s more of a tongue twister than a poem. What can I say, I was three.
There is a recent post on La Tartine Gourmande about Bea’s recent trip home to France. She took her little baby Lulu to the family farm and even though she is less than a year old, had her out to smell the berries and experience all of the fresh food being grown right there for their table. What a lucky little girl.
I am often astonished at those who equate this level of attachment to food as elitism, when it is really one of the strongest ties that bind people together and part of a forgotten heritage. I know I’d rather think of visiting Flipper (or her imposters), or picking loganberries with my grandmother than standing in front of a microwave heating up a bagel dog.