Reflecting On My First Year In Culinary School

Check out Simple, Good and Tasty for the last post in my Culinary Chronicles series this year.

My final update is different than the previous ones because it’s a list. A best and worst of list, to be exact. Learn more about my favorite and least favorite aspects of my first year in community culinary school. Overall, it was an unforgettable and enriching experience.

I’m getting ready to attend the first part of the North Dakota Bloggers & Writers Conference in Bismarck, ND. Our own Marilyn Hagerty is going to lead us on a downtown food crawl. You can find us on Twitter at #NDLegendary.

If you’re in Fargo-Moorhead this weekend, enjoy Ribfest. We had a blast watching Sugar Ray perform from our balcony last night. That’s gotta be a legendary experience in itself.

Culinary School Update: Seafood Class

Join me at Simple, Good and Tasty for my latest culinary school update.

This the class I’ve been waiting for my entire life. It’s all about seafood.

Even though we’re on the prairie, we got to try preparing different types of seafood from whole salmon and halibut to littleneck clams and scallops. This might be my favorite update, yet.

I’ll meet you there.

Culinary School Woes: I Just Don’t Like These Pants

Culinary school has a lot of benefits.

We get to taste a new type of dessert everyday, attend food shows, and scarf down what’s left of the themed breakfast buffets every Thursday morning. But culinary school is like any other experience and has its own set of ups and downs. Our pants come to mind. I just hate those pants.

 

Next week, our semester will come to an end and we’ll return our uniforms to AmeriPride. I will not be sad to part with my pants over the summer. These aren’t just any pants, they’re culinary school pants and we get five pairs. Have I mentioned how much I loathe them? Let me count the ways:

First, they’re unisex pants and don’t differentiate between male and female anatomy. I don’t need to explain these differences, only to say that there are reasons why pants aren’t generally offered in unisex shapes.

Not only are these pants unisex, but they have a firm waistband that just doesn’t give. It’s not like these are sweatpants. They’re non-stretchy unisex pants. This is unfortunate considering they’re like clown pants merged with high-waisted, tapered jeans from the 90′s. These pants levitate towards my bosom and are so severely starched that they literally stand on their own legs. When I sit down, they rise, and when I exhale, they squeeze my abdomen like a sausage.

I encountered these pants during my first week of school on Uniform Fitting Day. We took turns meeting with vendor representatives who assigned us pants. Now, I’m a petite individual who already has trouble finding adult clothes, any clothes, and most especially pants. It’s hard to be on either side of the size spectrum, and it’s not fun to be on the small/short size when default sizes are often set to extra large. I hauled a few pairs of pants to the bathroom and tried them on. They fit in such a comically bad way, that I confronted a random girl in the bathroom and asked for reassurance.

“They’re not that bad, are they?”

In the Midwest, “Minnesota Nice” is a reality, not a myth but even she could not say anything nice about the pants. She made a face and replied, “I don’t think those are supposed to fit like that.” That’s when I ran.

I found the AmeriPride representative and showed him my pants so he could see for himself how badly they fit before he sentenced me to wearing them for a year. Even he could not tell me, in good conscience, to just wear the pants, so he made a note to find a different size and hem about a foot from the bottom.

My final grievance about these pants is that they are white. They match our white everything: Pants, jacket, and baseball cap which comes in a one-size-fits-all. No matter how tightly I adjust it, the bill always falls into my eyes. It’s not unusual for me to run into others or biff counters and I maneuver around the kitchen by watching my feet. I know that white symbolizes ideals like cleanliness or purity, but what if it’s accented by spots and streaks in questionable colors? I feel like a walking canvas. A sunset painted in carrot orange, rusty blood, and chocolate streaks. I just hope I don’t unknowingly sit in something colorful. On especially messy days, I jump at the sight of my own clothing. People must look at me and think, “Wow, that girl sure knows how to throw down in the kitchen,” or, “What a klutz!”

In addition to being prone to staining, white pants are also kind of revealing. Some of my white pants are constructed from thick fabric, while others border on transparent. Both become see-through when wet and, since we are often cooking with water or spraying down dirty dishes, this is a significant concern. I have to wear pants underneath my pants because I just don’t trust my pants.

All of this makes me wonder, “Why white? and, “What’s up with these pants?”

Turning in my pants will feel bittersweet, but unfortunately, it’s not a goodbye. It’s a see you later.

Culinary School Update: On Poultry and Peking Ducks

Join me at Simple, Good and Tasty where I share highlights from our poultry unit.

During the past half-semester, I worked hard to bounce back from my first “F,” ever, broke down my first chicken, and learned how to make Peking duck.

You can, in fact, make a pretty decent Peking duck at home if you have an air compressor or a bicycle pump.

Read more here.

Culinary School Chronicles at Simple, Good, & Tasty

From Moorhead, MN, I am chronicling my culinary school experiences in a new series published by Simple, Good & Tasty.

January brought me into my second semester. My classes include morning “lab” where I make soups, vegetables, side dishes, and sauces. In the afternoon, our classes alternate between a menu planning and meats/seafood class where we’ll learning how to break down chickens and make Peking ducks with bicycle pumps. I’ll also attend a weekly Introduction to Wine course.

I hope you’ll join me through the semester. Meet you there. . . 

An Essay On Bed and Breakfasts

In my short life, I’ve stayed in a decent number of bed and breakfasts.

As a woman who has traveled solo, I have always felt more comfortable in a bed and breakfast than a hotel. Plus, there’s the food.

I’m not sure why it occurred to me to stay in a bed and breakfast in the first place. Years ago, my family cared for my mom at home while she was in hospice, and I needed a time out. I remember telling my boss at the time that I needed a day off, otherwise I would have a mental breakdown. He replied with something along the lines of, “I don’t want to know. Just go.” He put up with me when I was fresh out of college. I mean, I accidentally lit my computer keyboard on fire and he had to put it out. Instead of firing me, he laughed at me. And then told everyone. He was a saint.

On short notice, I found myself at the now-closed bed and breakfast in Chaska, MN. I hiked through the bluffs on a sunny autumn afternoon, treated myself to dinner, and curled up for the rest of the evening in a pile of library books drinking cream sherry by the tiny glass. Cream sherry was like a revelation to me. It never tastes as good at home. The next morning, I sat alone at a table next to another couple and enjoyed an awkward breakfast of yogurt parfait and eggbake in the dining parlour.

I was thrilled that my tally was only $100 and thus began my ongoing bed and breakfast quest.

The bed and breakfasts I have stayed in have ranged from just fine to delightful. I’ve come to choose inns based upon decor, avoiding frilly lace and dolls like the plague. At a bed and breakfast in outstate Minnesota, my evening was dampered by trying to avoid sleeping in Wookie-sized mattress craters. Snacks have ranged from wheat thins to homemade crackers to freshly baked cookies and tea, to none at all. Eggbakes reign supreme (which I happen to love). One of my favorite dishes was a wild rice quiche while I was less crazy about a cheap, grocery store danish.

Some inns enrich the visit with special touches like cream sherry or chocolates while others feel more like staying at your friend’s grandmother’s. Not that there’s anything wrong with this, except when the price costs the same as those with more perks. I’ve appreciated discounts from making last minute reservations and traveling solo. The rates are set for two people and two breakfasts, so, oftentimes, an inn will eliminate the cost of the second breakfast.

This is all to say that the good have been really, really good, while the others have been ordinary at worst.

Most have forced guests to eat breakfast together at a set time. I have actually found it less awkward to dine around a common table, than to be divided into small tables. As an introvert, this situation brings about an expected degree of anxiety, though I have always found community dining less awkward than expected and mostly enjoyable.

One of my favorite experiences occurred at the Elephant Walk in Stillwater, MN the spring of 2009, five months following my mother’s death. I had found myself in a perplexing relationship and wanted to get away for a night. I packed my stay doing all of the things that made me feel like myself. A perk of traveling solo was having my very own massive cheese plate and bottle of wine that awaited me in my room upon arrival. Homemade crackers, fancy cheeses, fresh fruit, and nuts.

The next morning, I enjoyed a multi-course breakfast with a couple from Chicago. I was gluten-free at that time and Rita, the innkeeper made me homemade, gluten-free muffins. She joined the conversation and we all ended up talking for hours. It was the breakfast where all parties seemed the most mutually invested in the conversation. In a genuine way, not merely making obligatory niceties. As I paid my tally, Rita gently told me that she didn’t think he was the right one. She encouraged me not to give up my dreams of traveling while I sat on her floor and pet her giant, fluffy black cat. She sent me on my way feeling carrying a small travel pouch from Thailand, feeling greatly encouraged.

Three years later, I brought my husband. Being a weeknight in the dead of winter, we got a really good rate. There was only one other couple that night, so we got upgraded to the largest suite with a gas fireplace. Rita and her significant other spend their winters in Thailand and so we met her daughter, Sasha. Her family moves in and manages the inn during the winter months. I told her all about my first visit. She laughed and said she knows her mom loves to dispense advice.

Same giant cheese plate and bottle of wine. This time, I shared. Though, I did not have to share my breakfast. We each enjoyed own elaborately carved pineapple half, freshly baked scone, stuffed french toast with spicy andouille, and flourless chocolate cake. We drank coffee to our hearts’ content over conversation with a couple of chemists.

It’s funny how life can seem to make a full circle. On this morning of a New Year, I try to be thankful for what I have and hopeful for more adventures. After all, we narrowly escaped two apocalypses this year.

I liked the Harold Camping one better. 

Seattle And Spicy Chili

I spent the weekend before Christmas in Seattle.

This was my fourth visit to Seattle. I first traveled to Seattle my senior year of college when I co-led a college service trip. We spent the week volunteering for Multifaith Works, a nonprofit dedicated to serving those with HIV/AIDS and other life-threatening illnesses. The nonprofit has since become Rosehedge/Multifaith Works and expanded their mission to also supporting those who struggle with isolation and loneliness.

I think it’s safe to say our whole group of students fell in love with Seattle upon arrival. Such a stark contrast to Iowa. From the steep hills to smooth public transportation systems to the diversity of food.

We experienced many examples of hospitality during this week. One man gave up his weeknight to take us to the grocery store when we arrived, and a church allowed us to crash in their basement and use their kitchen. We painted a house one afternoon. Later that evening, the landlord treated our whole group to a seven course feast at a Chinese restaurant in the International District.

Each course was an adventure. Fish maw soup that we were instructed to spike with a red vinegar and white pepper. Peking duck. Knots of salt and pepper fried crab that I clumsily poked with my chopsticks. Sweet and sour pork chops, and shrimp with walnuts coated in that sweet, mayonnaise sauce. Afterwards, his daughter led us to her favorite bubble tea shop.

For the first time, I came away with the understanding of travel mercies. I was humbled.

The focus of this most recent visit was to celebrate celebrate my friend’s marriage. We celebrated over frantic wedding preparations. While in transit. Over spicy Thai food. And deep, dark coffee.

Dungeness Crab Egg Foo Young and four, housemade hot sauces for brunch at Revel. Espresso art and biscotti from Roy Street Coffee & Tea. Spicy Thai food and Thai tea from Thai Curry Simple

While some danced at the reception, we non-dancing folk enjoyed hot, buttered rum. It was truly a whirlwind weekend and a beautiful wedding. And it involved making lots of chili.

The family found out I was in culinary school and asked if I could make a mild version of chili for 50 people with whatever was in the groom’s kitchen within a matter of hours.

As I began the mild version, I was asked to make a spicy version for 50 more people. I exclaimed, ”I’m gonna chop the heck out of all these vegetables!” or at least, that’s what I’ve been told. I just remember feeling like I was on Chopped. Then things got messy.

Before leaving for the rehearsal dinner, we accidentally spilled at least half on the floor. The next day, we learned we left a large bag of it on the counter overnight. We quickly scrambled and fortified what was left. Hours before the wedding, I noticed a placard stating the chili was free from a multitude of allergens including soy. My eyes widened in panic because I remembered seasoning it with soy sauce I had found in the fridge.

We simply crossed out the word soy and all was well.

I did not think I would want to make chili for a long time. Which is why I was so surprised when I started craving chili when I got home. I think I wanted to share some of my experience with Jake who was unable to join me due to work.

Jeni’s Spicy Chili

Ingredients:
Olive oil
1 pound of ground beef
1/2-1 can of beans
1 onion, diced
1-2 carrots, diced
1 sweet bell pepper, roughly chopped
1-2 red or green jalapenos, roughly chopped (I use seeds and all but you can remove for less heat)
Tomato paste (I use at least a few tablespoons)
1-2 cloves garlic, minced
Chili powder
Cumin
Oregano
Cinnamon (a couple pinches)
1-2 cans crushed tomatoes (if you don’t have enough, add water)
Salt
Black pepper
Brown sugar, enough to balance the acidity
Soy sauce or tamari
Sriracha, to taste
Butter, a small knob

Instructions:

  1. In a large pot, cook ground beef in a little olive oil until slightly pink. If there’s too much fat, pour some off, but keep enough for flavor.
  2. Add onions and carrots and cook until the carrots are softer.
  3. Add as many beans as you’d like.
  4. Add the sweet and hot peppers. Stir occasionally until slightly softened.
  5. Add the garlic and briefly cook until fragrant.
  6. Add the spices. I use a lot of chili powder, plenty of cumin, and a little bit of oregano and cinnamon. You can always add more later.
  7. Add tomato paste. Stir and cook until the tomato paste loses its rawness.
  8. Stir in the crushed tomatoes.
  9. Season with salt, black pepper, and enough brown sugar to balance the acidity from the tomatoes. Add more spices as desired.
  10. Optional seasonings: I like to add a little soy sauce for umami, sriracha for additional heat, and I melt in a small knob of butter for richness.
  11. Simmer until the peppers and carrots are tender and the flavors meld. Continue to taste for seasoning.
  12. I like to serve with a scoop of rice and garnish with shredded cheese, sour cream, cilantro, and a lot of chopped, raw onion.

Culinary School Chronicles: The End Of A Semester

Within the last two weeks, I finished my first semester in culinary school, spent a weekend in Seattle, and traveled with Jake back to the Twin Cities to spend the holidays with our families.

Class wrapped up a couple of weeks ago and I spent my last mornings in baking lab. I remember making chocolate chip cookies, soft dinner rolls, Italian-style flat bread, and oceans upon sheet pans of Florentines shaped into little bowls. These lacy cookies taste more like candy, than cookies, since they contain butter, sugar, oats, and finely chopped almonds. The ingredients are melted into a batter and cooked until thick. Then, it’s dropped onto sheet pans and baked, where it melts into thin circles and caramelizes.

The Florentine fun begins once they are removed from the oven. Cook them too little, and they will crumble. Cook them too long, and they will crack. When they are pulled form the oven, the Florentines transform from molten hot to stiff as a board. The trick is to remove them from the pan and shape them at just the right moment. If you remove them from the pan too early, they will droop apart and if you remove them too late, they’ll be too stiff to shape. Despite our most earnest efforts, there were lots of broken Florentines.

Bowls of broken Florentine bowls. The first pieces we tried were heavenly like manna. Bowl breakage was followed by small nibbles. By the end of class, I never wanted to see a Florentine again. I completely ruined myself for Florentines and the thought of them still makes me nauseous. For the duration of that week, we garnished many desserts with shards of broken Florentines and I avoided every single one of them. The next week, Florentines made another appearance on our productions sheet. This time, shaped like cannoli shells. I let someone else do the honors and was unable to take even a bite.

This pistachio-crusted cheesecakes flecked with citrus zest received kudos and recipe requests from my classmates. I don’t often seek out cheesecake, but this version tasted refreshingly light. I will post my adaption when I get back to Fargo. It’s worth the wait.

A highlight during our last week of class manifested as a free steak dinner cooked and served by the faculty and staff. We were treated to a real, grilled steak accompanied by french fries, bread, salad, and ice cream. It was kind of fantastic. Except for the fact that I accidentally stood in the well-done line.

Then, on the last day of class, we were summoned to field day at 7 a.m. The second-year students divided the first year class and gave us cleaning assignments. These were kept strictly confidential until the big reveal on field day. It felt like culinary karma. Come late every day and leave early? You might get to clean a cooler. Or spend some time in the freezer. Do you come to class, but leave for hour-long smoke breaks or spend the mornings wandering around pestering other students? Have fun scraping the grills and cleaning the ovens.

I made out OK. This time.

After a lunch break, we took our final ServSafe test, which I just found out I passed. And two finals later, we said goodbye until next semester.

Currently, my husband and I are back in the Twin Cities spending the holiday week with our families.  We haven’t spent this many consecutive days in Minneapolis-St. Paul since we moved to Fargo. My culinary bucket list is long and already began with a trip to Broders’ Cucina Italiana for our favorite Eggplant Special Pizza. Yes. This tastes like home. 

Jake and I wish you all the very best as we celebrate Christmas this holiday week. I have a lot of ideas for posts to write and recipes to try during my break from class and work, but until then. . .

One Year In Fargo & Kahlua S’mores Brownies

It’s hard to believe that we’ve lived in Fargo for a year.

On October 6, 2012, Jake and I moved from Bloomington, MN to Fargo, ND, with most of our earthly belongings trailing behind us in a moving truck. We left our tiny one-bedroom apartment in the glass towers next to the airport for our new home three and a half hours west. Besides my college school years spent in Iowa, this was both of our first time living outside of the Twin Cities.

Pre-move, Jake had been offered a promotion within the company while I was finishing my first full-time year of graduate school. I had recently signed-up for the next semester’s classes and been offered my first entry-level job in the field. The offer caught me off guard and his employer needed a quick decision.

Two weeks letter we said yes to the move, and a month and a half later, we were in North Dakota. We spent our first night in Fargo in a hotel while we waited for our moving van to arrive. For dinner, we ate a dinner of take-away chicken wings and boxed wine on the bedspread.

Jake acclimated to his new job responsibilities. I proceeded with the intention of applying to a graduate program in counseling psychology. My applications were complete but I never submitted them because  it didn’t feel 100% authentic. Instead, I decided to continue to write and blog about food and secured my first corporate job in Human Resources.

I spent part of my first year hating Fargo and homesick. Eventually, the loathing turned into annoyance, and then some of what annoyed me became more endearing. The winds still blow strong and cold, and I can’t always find what I want. The traffic moves a little slower and I still do a double take when I see someone else that looks like me. . .

But now I enjoy the more laid-back pace of life. We don’t have the same variety of restaurants to choose from, but we rely on our favorites of which we are genuinely fond. When I first moved to Fargo, the employees at the Somali Business Center soothed my homesick sadness with Somali tea, homemade sambusas, and sweet biscuits. I’ve found home in wine and the perfect cheese plate at the Green Market. After hard days at work in the fleeting summer, Jake and I basked in the sun on the Hodo rooftop patio. We go on dates at Mango’s Mexican Grill on Main Avenue and connect over frosty mugs of beer, fresh salsa, and molcajetes amidst the dusty urban sprawl.

When we don’t want to leave the house, we rely on delivery from Pizza Nico. When we don’t want to go very far, we order take-out from the ever friendly Fortune House. It reminds me of my family’s favorite Chinese take-out in Rosemount, MN. Imperfect, yet perfect in all of the right ways. Nichole’s Fine Pastry stacks up against my favorite Twin Cities bakeries, while Passage To India has become our new Surabhi. It may even be better. I’ll never forget how Jake proposed in the street next to JL Beers and that we celebrated our engagement over seared tuna and gnocchi at Toscana. In celebration of my first birthday in Fargo, we dined with friends at Mezzaluna where I tried to sneak bites of Jake’s M Burger, the best burger I have eaten to date.

I’m having the time of my life exploring the communities surrounding Fargo-Moorhead and between North Dakota and the Twin Cities. And I explore them the best way I know how. By sitting in bars and diners, enjoying the local food. Jake and I used to go on mall dates at the Mall of America dates. Now, we wander the West Acres mall, often with pretzels and coffee in hand, and we always stop at STABO Scandinavian Imports where we look and rarely buy. Recently, I bought a painted lefse flipping stick (amongst their Scandinavian cooking and baking supplies) and a little, red rosemaled mug from which I sip coffee every morning.

Last summer, we spent a weekend relaxing on the shore of Lake Detroit. Later that summer, we drove a little past Lake Detroit, through Paul Bunyan’s country of coniferous forests for the first time. I attended my first outdoor baseball game and watched the RedHawks play on a Halloween theme night where a giant Hershey kiss poured me wine with my chili dog. We wandered the Downtown Street Fair and ate spicy, wood fired pizza from Fireflour’s food truck. I enjoyed my first taste of knoephla soup at the Home Plate Cafe in Fredonia, spent the night at the Rough Riders Hotel tucked amongst Theodore Roosevelt Park, stood on the top of the the Enchanted Highway’s windy hilltops, and explored Little Missouri National Grasslands at sunrise.

We have met friendly and inspiring people who have made our first move much easier, and we continue to meet more each day. We always miss our family and friends from the Twin Cities and we miss our favorite favorite haunts like Lake Nokomis, The Nook, and Bangkok Thai Deli. This has served to make us realize what we had taken for granted and so we are even more grateful than before.

Starting culinary school really solidified my optimistic Fargo state of mind. I found courage in Fargo to resign from my full-time job role and enroll as a full-time culinary student. Against all odds, I was admitted instead of wait listed and am proud to say I just made my first, flaky pie crust. I realized that I never hated Fargo. I just needed to do something I truly loved.

This is not all to say that everything about Fargo is perfect, but I’m having so much fun that I can’t help but to believe we landed in the right place at the right time which I find exciting and lovely.

Except for the trains. I still hate those trains.

Kahlua S’more’s Brownies
Inspired by the s’mores brownies I made in culinary class at Minnesota State Community & Technical College from the school’s cookbook. Kahlua brownie base adapted from the San Luis Obisbo Tribune.

 

Ingredients:

2 1/2 cups unbleached all-purpose flour, sifted
1/2 tsp baking powder
3/4 tsp salt
1 cup (2 sticks) unsalted butter
2 cups semisweet chocolate chips
1 1/2 cups brown sugar, somewhat packed
2 large eggs
1/2 cup Kahlua

S’mores Topping:
Semi-sweet chocolate chips
Miniature marshmallows
Graham crackers, broken into small squares

Instructions:

  1. Preheat oven to 350 degrees F.
  2. Line a 9X9 baking pan with parchment paper. Then grease the pan.
  3. In a medium-sized bowl, sift together the flour and baking powder and whisk in the salt.
  4. Gently heat the butter and chocolate chips over a double boiler until melted. Set aside to cool.
  5. In a large bowl, combine the brown sugar, eggs, and Kahlua.
  6. Once the chocolate mixture cools closer to room temperature, combine with the brown sugar, eggs, and Kahlua.
  7. Gently fold in the dry ingredients, half a a time, until just incorporated.
  8. Pour into the baking dish, evenly.
  9. Bake for about 40-45 minutes or until a toothpick can be cleanly removed from the center of the brownies.
  10. Sprinkle with chocolate chips and marshmallows. Return to the oven for a few minutes or until the chocolate is melted and the marshmallows are puffy and starting to turn golden brown.
  11. Top with graham cracker squares and bake for another couple of minutes
  12. The brownies are easier to cut if they are cooled completely. Try popping them in the freezer or on a cold doorstep.  For cleaner cuts, run a knife under hot water and wipe off the debris between cuts. These brownies are incredibly rich so cut into small pieces.

 

 

 

 

 

 

My First Few Days In Culinary School

I’ve completed my first few days of community culinary school.  Our instructors have mercifully eased us into the semester with introductions, kitchen orientations, and pre-tests.

Of my classmates, I seem to be one of the only individuals in my age range, which I suppose isn’t that much different from my job.

I’m struck by the blunt honesty with which young people directly out of high school speak.  This quality (usually) becomes more subtle with age, and it strikes me as refreshing.

I’ve never found myself pondering my age so frequently.

As a result, I find myself having maternal conversations with my high-school self during class.  Most of them are reassuring.

I’m terrified of the school’s death trap parking lot.  My car’s almost been T-boned, sideswiped, or backed-into at least four times, now.  I think there was a fight yesterday.  And by fight, I mean an enraged student on a motorbike shouting expletives.

Today’s pre-test revealed that I know nothing about increments of measurement and how they relate to one another.  The same applies to knowing the proper names of kitchen utensils and vesicles.

I broke into a cold sweat as I tried to demonstrate that I could dismantle and reassemble a large slicer in front of my classmates.

Today, I picked up my first knife set.  They’re not Wusthofs and I don’t care.  They are vastly superior to the chipped Rachel Ray Santoku knife I’ve been using since college.

We’ve been reminded many times that as culinary students, we must not forget that we’re always on display.  The kitchen lab is surrounded by windows, meaning the school can observe us as we prepare foods before and during meal service.  This can basically be interpreted as, “Please don’t throw noodles.”

Waking up in the mornings to learn about food feels surreal.  Even during the most trying days in culinary school this semester, I know I’ll be happier slinging salads or disinfecting industrial deli slicers than doing what I have, full-time, for the past nine months.

What we truly love will never go away.  Our interests and passions won’t diminish with time or fade gently into the night.  My interest in all things food hasn’t and won’t.

Unfortunately, I have the sinking feeling that this enduring passion for food will not make me any better at kitchen math class.

Fractions or ratios, anyone?