*Respect

“Hello, Sisters.”…

…was the greeting from a passing dude of the native persuasion while my friend and I were hanging in the park with her kids one afternoon. That was my welcome to Santa Fe, a fair introduction to what looks like a beautiful balance of two cultures, one native and one invader (I will not go into the history of the white man’s shafting of the indigenous peoples, but know that I am very aware of the rightful rift between the two.). What I see here in New Mexico is a far better celebration of Native culture rather than the blatant tourist rip-off or worse, the “out of sight, out of mind” treatment I have seen in other places. A rosy outlook, perhaps, but The City Different sure feels like it is as advertised.

This morning as Ellie and I watched the plaza wake up, the most magical sound hit my ears- The greetings of the elders as they began their day. Half English, half mother tongue, I got a taste of that which is vanishing. Wishing for a translator, I wondered how many words of their conversation were rooted in traditional dialogue, the words that honor age, clan, nature and the universe. We continental party crashers have lost the way of speaking and actually meaning something. When a stranger calls me Sister, it means more than Ma’am, Lady or Miss. Get the idea? We non-natives suck at just saying hello in passing.

One of the things that was drilled into us at school was the concept of respect. From having to kiss our lobsters before we dispatched them to making sure we knew where our meat and produce came from, we Oregon students became instilled with reverence for our provisions. The movements are prevalent- Farm To Table, Slow Food, farmers markets, CSA’s… the list of organizations with banners and militants waving said banners are endless. Its a good start. People are returning to the land by way of back yard gardens and the smarter of us don’t care that the economy may to be blame, or that its fashionable to the point of snobbery. No matter the reason, dirt is getting under more fingernails these days, albeit chased with germaphobic insanity by antibacterial soap. Bearing sunburned noses, ears and shoulders, we pause to honor that warm, just- rinsed vegetable before it falls to our knife on the cutting board. This is good.

I decided a while back that learning how my food got here was a prime motivator for the rest of my culinary life. If given enough time and cash, I’d be on the road year-round chasing down goat farmers and viticulturists to see how my favorite snack combo- Humboldt Fog and red grapes came to be. That said, I decided to take this mission a whole lot deeper and go WAY back to see where American cuisine started. Not meat and potatoes as we know it, I’m talkin’ hunt with the clan, bring home a mighty beast, honor it, cook it, share it. Yep, I’m goin’ back to the people that started it all in North America.

With that in mind, I want to see less of the volume-for-dollar, pile of shit overlapping a platter on the breakfast table and more of well treated, well crafted and thoughtful food. Honoring the animal that gave its life to sustain you should not involve unbuttoning your pants. If you can’t taste the uniqueness of your protein, the sugar in the carrot, the parallel between basil and mint or catch the spiky aroma of tomato vine, you are missing out on so much. Granted, there is a time for a pizza orgy now and then, but not as a daily activity.

Happy Trails

Brian and I are house hunting in Santa Fe and hope to be relocated by early autumn. As unique and promising as Oregon is, the calling for new adventures and inspiration drags us eastward, just a little, into the sunny bosom of the Southwest. With the fantastic background of Northwest cuisine in my head, I am looking forward to throwing in a bit of heat around. After a few years of wearing polar fleece underwear, I find it liberating to be back in the sunshine. It still stumps the hell out of me how such a cool, damp place rarely draws on the combustible powers of chiles like they do in the desert. Yeah, yeah, what grows together goes together and all, but come on! What a better natural source of body temperature elevator is there than a nice green chile pepper? Coffee only goes so far, my friends. And yes, I HAVE seen habanero mochas on the coffeehouse menus out here. Don’t knock it ’til you try it.

Adios Tapas

Lets not mince words, it was a deliberate internship do-over. Pure and simple. The gift of getting my foot in the door of a restaurant was priceless, necessary and educational.I am grateful, satisfied and happily humbled. I left with a lot to think about. I met some unique people, learned that the right chemistry makes for a bare-knuckle, foul-mouthed good time at work and that kitchen work hurts just as much as working in the OR, if not more so. Not to be a whiny bitch, but my feet are happier, the nasty ecosystem I had growing in my non-slip Crocks has been exterminated and my wrists aren’t swollen at night anymore. I never did cut or burn myself seriously (I am too fanatical about that shit), only torched food on my last shift (same order. twice. call it extreme short-timers disease.) and never dropped anything.

Was I good at it? Hell no. Never professed I would be. Did I like it? Line cooking? Not so much, but it was all in the experience for me, not the love of the game. I will admit that a static menu, while easier to learn, becomes about as intimate as making a test tube baby after a while. No fault of the restaurant- it is all about consistency , keeping regular customers happy and it proves useful for brand recognition. I can’t even have the same coffee bean day after day, so my craving for variety naturally follows to my culinary urges (Hence, the infamous statement from Brian, “She never makes the same thing twice unless I make her write it down”). Lesson learned- Jen needs more hands-on creative excitement, less lining up of tickets on the rail.

Will I work in another restaurant? Not saying at this point. I will always be in the food arena and will always have high standards for what is on my plate.