Want to do a Cooking Internship?

A few people have been emailing me about my experience doing my pastry internship (also known as an externship, stage, stagiere, or apprenticeship). How did I decide to do it? How did I ask? How did I find what places were accepting internship applicants? These are all good questions and I am going to do my best to address them through my own experiences and opinions on the subject. I hope that, regardless if you are a cooking student or not, this will help you in your quest of finding an internship that best suits you.

How did you decide to do an internship?

For a long time the only thing I knew how to bake were chocolate chip cookies. It was only after I graduated college that I suddenly, and quite unintentionally, had any interest in baking anything else. Once I started, I began to read up more on the subject and poring through cookbooks. I started at simply making cupcakes, but I soon moved up to ice creams, custards, layer cakes. After a year or two I was throwing together puff pastry, breads, and laminate doughs. At my day job I spent my down time reading baking blogs, cookbooks, and jotting down ratios and recipes on scraps of papers and in numerous little notebooks. I was like a student cramming for exams, attempting to memorize every fact and understand each equation.

I would take the occasional cooking class to boost my knowledge, and various writing assignments allowed me to work alongside talented pastry cooks who would teach me what I wanted to know. From here I was able to understand and practice advanced skills in a more conducive environment. I knew that I didn’t want to go to pastry school as I was (and still am) currently enrolled for my Master’s degree. The thought of being the opening victim in a Saw film seemed more appealing than spending more time in class and, god almighty, accumulating more student loan debt. Furthermore, conversations with many chefs and caterers had convinced me that the best way to learn was to be in a kitchen working.


I became determined to find a kitchen that would take me in for a while and let me work and learn under a master who knew the craft. I felt that, for me, this was the most logical way to get a lot of hands-on experience in a number of aspects of the field. At the same time I would get the chance to better understand a subject and career field that, as a food writer and outsider, I had often written about but never fully understood. I felt that this experience would not only make me a better baker, but a better writer as well. Lastly, I still wanted to be a college writing professor in the future. In my opinion, the best teachers were the ones who had left academia to have adventures. These teachers usually had a broader, more comprehensive worldview that seemed to grant them more sagely understanding of their subject and students.

For me, it seemed that an internship was necessary in all aspects of my life.

What did you have to consider beforehand?

The decision to do an internship wasn’t an idea I just decided on a whim, like shooting an arrow blindfolded and assuming it would find its target. I held onto the idea tightly, sitting down and figuring out a lot of problems and questions that I knew were bound to come up. How would I get the time off from work? How much time would I need? How much time could I get? What kind of supplies would I need? What goals and skills did I desperately want to master in my time there? Who did I want to work with? What is my financial situation and how will it be affected?

This was the hardest part of figuring out my internship.

To begin, I had to find someone who would take me on (a topic I will discuss in detail shortly). Next, I sycophantically approached the Human Resources coordinator at my work and questioned what the policy on taking extended leaves and vacation might be. While I had a considerable amount of vacation time built up at my job – about three months worth – I didn’t want to cash it all in as 1) there might be the chance that my employers wouldn’t be too keen on my taking such a leave, 2) the amount or work I would return to after that long would likely drive me insane, and 3) I wanted to have some vacation time for other plans such as visiting family.

Luckily, working for a non-profit, my employer was more than happy to give me permission to encourage personal growth and recharge my batteries. We worked out that I would be permitted to take five weeks off; three of them as vacation and two of them as leave. The two weeks of leave would be unpaid.


Money is a serious aspect of the internship you need to take into consideration. As an intern you will not be paid. If you’re already a student then this might not be a change from your current situation. If you’re working a normal 40-hour work week then understand that either you’ll be cashing out your vacation or possibly going without a paycheck for a while. If this is the case then you need to be sure to budget ahead.

All of this took place in May, and the internship was planned for September. This gave me enough time to get all financial matters in order. I ensured that I had saved enough money to not have to worry during those two weeks. Afterwards, I called the restaurant I planned to work at and set the date I would work. I then conferred that to the Human Resources coordinator at my job and confirmed everything.

Money-wise, you also have to take into consideration other costs. Think about extraneous, though necessary, purchases. As an intern you may be provided with some chef’s whites, though at some places you may not. If you aren’t in cooking school and don’t already have equipment then you will need to purchase it. This can include non-slip shoes, pants, knives, a knife roll, and many other pieces of equipment. If you’re planning to bake then the number of tools you will be expected to have can be staggering. In fact, you will probably need to buy a tool box to carry them all. Though you may have some of these tools already you should expect to spend anywhere from $100-$350 on equipment for your internship. I made sure in the months beforehand to search and purchase quality tools that would serve me well not only during the internship, but afterwards as well. (I bought a lot of it through the Amazon stores of fellow bloggers so as to throw some cash their way.) Try not to be cheap on these external costs as your tools are your trade. Shitty tools result in shitty results.


Aside from money, I had to consider the actual workload. For me this would be a shift from a sedentary job in an office to standing for six to ten hours at a time working with my hands, at times doing repetitive tasks for hours on end. Are you not okay cutting and de-seeding grapes for three hours? Chopping up an entire flat of figs? Peeling, buffing, coring, poaching, and slicing a sheer rock slide of Seckel pears? You better be. Expect your feet to get sore and your body to hurt. Expect burns and cuts far worse than what you have experienced at home. It will take a while for your body to adjust to the physical demands of the job. I knew to expect this but once you are actually there the fatigue that sets in is much worse than you expect it to be. You need to be prepared to tough it out.

If you have any particular physical ailments then you need to take a step back and critically analyze how it will affect your performance. If you suffer from chronic fatigue, back pain, or don’t have the ability to stand for more than an hour at a time, then you shouldn’t be looking for an internship. You will simply act as a determent in the kitchen, slow down service, and impede your co-workers from getting their own work done. This may sound harsh, but it is the truth.

Lastly, as I previously noted, I only worked five weeks. That was the longest amount of time I could get from work, which for me was the deciding factor. Some restaurants only offer one or two week internships, and others will let you work for three or more months. I wish I could have done three months but it wasn't a feasible option when I considered my position. To make up for it I made sure to work a ridiculous number of hours each week. Though this was exhausting, I revelled in it. The notebook I brought with me everyday to record events of the day, techniques, numbers, names, recipes, and other important info proves it as I nearly filled the entire thing in the space of a month. Remember that the more time you can spend in the kitchen the better.


How did you find a chef to work under?

I was really lucky finding Elaine, my mentor and the pastry chef at Grange. She happily took me on and was more than willing to teach me. She demonstrated the commitment and drive needed to live in the business, often working sixteen hour days and constantly striving to create diverse and engaging recipes that would entice clients. She functioned with an ethos that I wanted to emulate: she created high-end desserts using solid techniques (both classic and modern) and utilizing seasonal ingredients. I knew this because I spent months looking at her menus and going to the restaurant and trying her desserts, seeing what I liked and didn’t like and if this was what I wanted to learn.

If you are serious about doing an internship you first need to know what it is you want to learn. I jotted down on a list various ideas, goals, techniques and concepts I wanted to be sure I could observe in a kitchen. Next, I began to profile the best possible restaurants that had pastry chefs that embodied my list and started researching both the pastry chefs and the restaurants. For me, I was able to do this second-hand via a magazine article I was working on. In it I profiled all the chefs I was interested in while at the same time observing and listening to their theories on what constitutes good pastry. After collecting a lot of information, visiting the restaurants, trying the food, and some heavy deliberation there was only one obvious choice.


Lucky for me, Elaine said yes; partially because we had developed a relationship while I was writing the article and had become friends since then. If you already have a good relationship with a chef then that might be the best advantage you have to landing a truly great interning experience.

Elaine vetted me when I also asked the head chef, the restaurant manager, and the restaurant owner for permission as well and who all had to give their approval. I had to explain to each why I wanted to intern and what my goals were. After a few e-mails they all agreed to let me on, but in return I would work with their Public Relations person as well as write some blog posts and magazine articles chronicling my experiences. I was happy to do this because I got to do more writing in other publications that I had not yet been able to access, and the restaurant was happy for the publicity.

Right from the start I was up-front about what my goals and qualifications were. I explained that, while I hadn’t gone to cooking school, I was well-experienced and had a lot of skills for a self-taught baker. I told them that I was smart and learned fast. I provided a resume along with recipes and writings that best sampled my work. I wanted to be sure they knew exactly what they were getting.

Similarly, I was sure to ask what their expectations of me were. Honesty and straightforwardness was the most important part of this exchange. Unlike other job interviews where you might be able to flub how many words a minute you can type, in a kitchen you either know how to make caramel or you don't. However, don't fret about what you don't know. The chef in charge who has taken you on realizes that the main reason you are there is to learn.

I was also a special case for Grange in that I was their first non-cooking school intern. Normally, cooking schools have a special insurance policy that covers students in case of injuries on the job. I had to ensure that I had health insurance and that, yes, I acknowledged that I could seriously injure myself while on the job. Keep in mind that some restaurants may not be to keen on accepting a non-student applicant for this reason as they could be liable.


Remember in your conversations with the chef/owner/whoever you’re talking to that they do not owe you anything. They see plenty of chefs who are more trained than you asking for internships, and who are also willing to work for free in the eventual hopes of a job. Be humble, truthful, and sincere in your approach and demonstrate why that chef or that restaurant is the only one in the world that you can see yourself learning at. That statement isn’t simply exaggeration. It should be the truth.

Lastly, do not think that any place is too far out of your reach. Just ask. The worst thing any place can do is say no. If they do then ask next week, the week after that, and so on. Don't give up! If they consistently say no and assure you that they really are not interested in an intern thank them for their time and begin your search again. (Don't burn bridges. The situation could always change in the future!)

What was your experience like?

My experience was pretty much all I wanted it to be and a lot more I didn't expect it to be. More, actually, is a great way to describe it. The people were way more fun than I anticipated. The work was more fun and much harder that I thought it would be.


I also learned more than I expected; in the first week I experienced everything I was hoping to and many things I didn't think I would, like working the line on one of the busiest days the restaurant had ever encountered that year (I was there to plate dessert, but ended up learning how to move fluidly on the line while learning how to cook everything on the appetizer and small plate menu).

Chefs and cooks from both the banquet and kitchen side of things were happy to share with me, the pastry newbie, their knowledge about whatever they were working on. I learned all manner of skills such as how to fillet a sturgeon to how to easily plate for a 300 person event. All of this I've taken home and learned to incorporate in my everyday cooking.

I learned more about dedication, hard work, and people. Not just who they are, but what motivates them. Most importantly, I realized what motivated me.


One of the best aspects of my internship was the visceral experience of really working with my hands. I never knew that they could do some of the things I was doing. I didn't know they would learn how to really wield a knife. I didn't know they could become so immune to small burns and cuts. Coming from an office world my work usually went into the ether without me really seeing results. Here there was a physical product. Tangible proof of my labor. Even better, I could see on people's faces when they ate what I had made their joy and satisfaction.

I loved my experience. It's what happens when you surround yourself with great teachers.

What happened after?

Afterwards, I went back to my office job. It was a very hard transition, just as it had been when I first arrived at the kitchen, but I had trouble really getting back into the swing of things. I actually found myself getting somewhat depressed. It was only after sitting with some other food blogging friends that I realized that after my taste of cooking I wanted more.

When someone asked me about how my job was going, I didn't expect what I said to come out: "I don't like it anymore. I'm not happy. I want to go back to cooking. I want more time to work on my writing."

So, there it was.


The next day I started looking for baking jobs. (Grange, sadly, had no openings.) I decided I would try to bake part time and use the rest of the time to see if I could make a real go at food writing as well. I realized this meant a loss of some benefits and a pay cut, but then again I saw my options as being comfortable and unhappy, or stable and happy. I chose the latter.

Recently, I found a baking job that has a lot of opportunity for creativity, growth, and the chance to work with an amazing chef and an enthusiastic manager and owner. In addition, I've lined up a lot of writing jobs in my queue and can't wait to start on them.

My experience taught me to simply go after what makes you happy.

I encourage you to give it a shot. I went into my internship with no intention of becoming a professional baker of any kind. I simply wanted to better my pastry skills and take a vacation from my everyday life. Yet, in it I found a work I truly love doing.

Other Posts About Cooking School and Internships
Should I Go To Culinary School? - Shuna Lydon
Should You Go To Cooking School? - David Lebovitz
Want to Go to Pastry School? - Anita Chu
So You Wanna Be a Chef? - Anthony Bourdain, via Michael Ruhlman

Special thanks to Ashlee Gadd and Jackie Phongsavath who took some of these photos.

Saying Yes to German Chocolate Cake

-Contrary to the name this cake is mysterious in origin.-

I often say yes without thinking about what it is I'm saying yes to. It's something that's gotten me into trouble more often than I care to admit.

For example, there was that time in college when the housing department put on a Tunnel of Oppression event and I had agreed to preform as a Nazi. They asked me because I had a stereotypical German look due to my blue eyes, pale skin, and at the time my hair was still Children of the Corn white-blonde as opposed to the dirty-blonde it's shifted to in the past few years. I said yes because I had to ingratiate myself to housing so I could get a job the following year as a Resident Advisor; a job I really wanted. I would have said yes had they asked me to run naked through the Student Union.

I spent the entire night screeching horrible things to people in German. What I screamed was not only horrible because of the content of what I was saying, but also because I didn't speak German. Each stomach-turning phrase I knew I had only learned an hour earlier so every word I said sounded like I had beaten it to death with an old chain. (Years later, I still know those phrases. When I visited Austria, I had no idea how to ask for directions to the bathroom, but once there those phrases yelled out loud would clear a line for the toilet in no time.)

Between all of this I would screech a well placed "Schnell!" (mainly because I could say that word without it sounding like I jammed it through a meat grinder) and push around people in the tour groups. This played brutality was actually a welcomed respite from the room itself, which had been fashioned to look like a death camp. What made it so bad was that multiple televisions around the room that were playing the most horrifying scenes from movies like Boys Don't Cry and American History X, and clips from a graphic documentary on WWII extermination camps in continuous loops. They were meant to traumatize and demonstrate to the audience the kind of violence that minority groups face.

By the end of the night I was so traumatized by these images that I ended up spending the entire night alone in my dorm room sucking on lozenges for my sore throat, and terrified that if I left the room a gang armed with aluminum bats would bash me into a coma.

Then there was the time in high school I told a bunch of friends that I knew how to do the choreography from Michael Jackson's Thriller. A total lie said only to up my cool points in high school. The next day they asked me to teach it to them at a party the following night. Unable to come up with a decent excuse (for the record, I've never actually been a good liar) I left for the video store and rented a collection of Jackson's music videos. At home I played and replayed the music video - which I had never actually seen until that night - memorizing every single dance move so I could make good on my fibbing and make it truth.

Though, given, I did pull it off. That leaves me to question of whether I actually, in fact, did lie.

-Filling and ganache. Please, readers, if you make this cake don't start just eating these with a spoon like I did.-

Knowing all this it shouldn't be a surprise that when Roommate asked if I knew how to make a German chocolate cake and, if so, would I make him one for his birthday that I replied with an emphatic "Yes!" The moment he was out the door I ran to my cookbook shelf. Sadly, all of them were German chocolate cake-less, so I hopped online and Googled the hell out of it.

For the most part I knew it had something to do with coconut in some pecan-colored mash. (Were there pecans in this cake? I think so...) I recalled that this kind of cake was supposed to be a few layers high and I gathered there was chocolate frosting involved. Second guessing myself as I waited for the results to load I realized that the only vague picture I had of a German chocolate cake probably came from the dessert menu of a Denny's when I was twelve.

Wikipedia popped up with a simple explanation of the recipe, noting "German chocolate cake is a layered chocolate cake filled and topped with a coconut-pecan frosting. Sweet baking chocolate is traditionally used for the chocolate flavor in the actual cake, but few recipes call for it today. The filling and/or topping is a caramel made with egg yolks and evaporated milk; once the caramel is cooked, coconut and pecans are stirred in. Occasionally, a chocolate frosting is spread on the sides of the cake and piped around the circumference of the layers to hold in the filling."

Simple enough.

-Normally, I wouldn't suggest chocolate cake be served on white linen. But, damn, if it isn't pretty.-

However, the first thing I realized upon reading this was that German chocolate cake could in no way be German due to the pecans, which are nuts native to North America. My friends in Europe tell me that pecans are all the rage in France and Austria right now as the countries only just started importing them. My friend, Nikita, an Austrian citizen and mercurial girl who frequently travels to Germany told me that it's a dessert she's only seen stateside.

Another possibility is that the cake might be named for German chocolate. Before WWII, German chocolate was considered peerless. Only during and after the war did many countries stop using it. Attitudes shifted and people and began to see the Swiss as the most talented chocolatiers. Maybe its original, creator was German in decent and, after using some new world ingredients with and some decidedly European techniques, decided to christen it after the family homeland? Is that what made it German? Who knows?

But, no, German chocolate cake couldn't be, and isn't, German.

A bit more research brought up other information to light. The first recorded reference to the recipe was supposedly in 1957 and it was created by a Texan housewife. Thus, it seems German chocolate cake is most likely Texan in origin. Surprise, surprise. Apparently, you're more likely to have it with barbecue than schnitzel. However, recorded buttermilk chocolate cake recipes have existed since the early 1920s, so there may very well have been some earlier versions of this cake in the United States.

So I wondered, was I really making a German chocolate cake? Could it simply be telling a hopeful fib? This cake was claiming something in it's identity that it couldn't seem to back up. It seemed that we would be colluding together, this cake and me. The cake, its name; and me, my claim.

Now, the reason I said yes was due to my being all ego'd up after my externship. After pounding out 200 blue cheesecakes I figured that one simple chocolate cake wouldn't be a problem. I'll be the first to admit that I can be a bit egotistic, not to mention narcissistic and attention hungry. You see, without constant reassurance and praise I wither and die. It's a fact. This all results in me possessing a mouth that often bites off more than it can chew leading to my self-inflicted suffering and possible humiliation. All well worth the risk to garner praise and appreciation.

-Chocolate, coconut, pecans, and a hint of bourbon. Yes.-

Still, it's a cake. It couldn't be that hard. A quick drive to the store and back and I took to my task. Though the cake consisted of many different parts (e.g. frosting, filling, cake, and syrup) it was all relatively easy. After an hour or so the cake was completed. Four layers high, packed with coconut-pecan filling, and a hearty ganache poured over it, it made for a stylish and rustic-chic cake.

Looking at it in its completed form brought up many questions: Did I lie? Did I simply fib? Is there a difference?

I had said that I could make this cake without being fully sure if I could. Given, it wasn't like this was an artsy wedding cake for the princess of Monaco. I possessed the skills required and knew how to put this cake together without having ever actually done it before. The failure rate was significantly low. Either way, I had said yes being only 99% sure I could do it. Yet, isn't that how sure we usually are in life? I can only think of a few times that I really felt 100% about anything and truly believed it.

And then there was the cake. German. A misnomer. The cake was a lie. A tasty lie, but a lie none the less.

Lie or not, misnomer or otherwise, it's a delicious cake. One that can be served after sauerbraten or ribs and still please all at the table. It brings to light the questionable nature of truth or lies, the confusion of history, and the grey areas both in our lives and our food. A perfect cake for such a curious topic. Though, once you begin to eat it, I doubt you'll care one way or the other.

So, in the end, aying yes with haste may get you in trouble. But other times, especially when those times include cake, it can be worth the risk.

Update: It seems, that I missed a clear piece of research that many of my commenters do know. German chocolate cake was based on a recipe using chocolate made by a guy named Samuel German in 1852, hence the name. His method and factory were bought by Bakers™ Chocolate later on. It seems afterwards that the history of the cake got a little lost. At least, it seems, to my generation of bakers. (Probably, just me though.) Seems I just don't have the right history books on my shelves.

So, maybe the cake isn't a lie. Still, the name is probably one that will confuse and confound many generations of bakers (and, as my friend Nikita points out, many German people). Regardless, the cake still stands as a shining example of chocolate decadence and the twisting turns of history.

-Cake. Post-Party. In the end, does it matter what we call it?-

-Decicious layers of pecans, coconut, and chocolate.-

Struggles and Simplicity

-Simple syrup made a bit more complex.-

No one ever said that life is simple. It's supposed to be a struggle. A fight to the top of the mountain. Once at the top, you barely have a chance to savor the victory before realizing there's another mountain there that doesn't give two shits about the climb you just finished. It's a never ending trial, that life of yours.

Still, that's not to say it's all bad. There's a certain pleasure to be found in these challenges that life throws our way. After all, for some, pleasure is pain. We're all a bit masochistic in our own ways and, so, time and again, we submit ourselves to these tribulations, whether they be our education, family, friends, frenemies, or hobbies. Then there's work, which is probably the one we submit ourselves to more than any other. Our high-heeled mistress whom we're all more than happy to have step on us in four-inch heels.

It may seem a bit of a high comparison, but think about it: at various times in your work life you put yourself through torture that you know will be somewhat enjoyable because the eventual payoff is worth it. Once you come to your conclusion, the prize at the end, it's all immensely satisfying and you revel in the challenge you undertook. Furthermore, you usually ensure there's some way out just in case you realize you've bitten off more then you can chew. (The safety word is "run.")

-Perfect after a hard day.-

Of course, not all challenges are quite so. My recent internship was a challenge. I cut my fingers and suffered a few small burns. I had to master skills after viewing them only once. I screwed up a few times and I had to make it work. I took this challenge knowing that there wasn't a way out and that I would happily take whatever the kitchen could dish out. And once or twice I wished I wasn't there; there's nothing fun about peeling, coring, and slicing a flat of baby-fist sized Seckel pears and nicking yourself with the peeler every few minutes. Making the entire kitchen smell due to burning a gallon of caramel turned oil slick black certainly isn't a keen experience either. Hazing is something you should expect and embrace in a kitchen each time you get it wrong.

Then you deal with it and do it once more. I marched back to the burners with a new pot and fresh ingredients knowing that I might fuck it up again, but realizing there was less chance I would. I learned from previous experiences and knew that sooner or later got the results I wanted. Success is an ego-boost to be sure, and while it was physically and mentally exhausting there are benefits to that hard work. For example, I'm quite proud of the muscles in my arm that I strengthened from whipping up so much sabayon; a task that requires a good thirty minutes of whisking at the speed of a bullet train. My bicep is now built like a butcher's dog. It's a fantastic feeling.

Still, that isn't to say the simple acts in life don't have their advantages. Simple is quick, easy, relaxed, and less likely to explode in your face or burn your wrists with a hot pan. It's tossing some spices into a pot of sugar and water and blending up a simple (See? Right there in the name.) syrup for cocktails of vodka and soda water.

So, sometimes, life isn't a cliff to scale but a hill to meander. A mistress wearing flats. You can enjoy those easy victories too, laid back joys that help push you through the tougher trials.

Sometimes, just keep it simple.


Hibiscus Simple Syrup
1 cup sugar
1 cup water
1/4 cup dried hibiscus flowers
1/2 cinnamon stick
2 strips of orange peel

Place over high heat and stir until mixture becomes clear and the sugar has dissolved. Allow to steep for thirty minutes. Pour through a sieve to remove solids. Cool to room temperature and use in ice creams, sorbets, poaching liquids, and cocktails.

-Of course, after this, I have a wedding cake for you to make. Ready?-

How I Will Leave

-Elaine, working me to the bone.-

After an entire month, four and a half weeks, of working in the pastry department at Grange I feel like I'm in some odd in-between state. I am abandoning my chef's whites and dressing back into my civies. Wardrobe aside I'll have to completely readjust myself. I have to adapt to a more sedentary job once again as opposed to running around and working with my hands. No more swearing, god-fucking-dammit, as I work around families, children, and more vernacular conservative types. The worst injury I can suffer at the office is a paper cut, as opposed to the hot, sharp, slippery world I'm leaving behind.

Out of the frying pan and into the cubicle.

I look forward to seeing my co-workers and going back to my job. To be honest, I'm anxious about the 700+ e-mails in my inbox. And, though I set up everything to operate just fine in my absence, I secretly hope that the place burned down so that my presence is seen as necessary (in the sake of job security during this economy).

Still, I will miss Grange. I will miss my pastry peeps. I will miss the banquets for 120 people and having to make and roll espresso-chocolate roulades for them in under two hours. I will no longer scoff at the challenges on Top Chef because I understand how difficult they really are now. I understand that even the most skilled bakers burn butter and caramel from time to time. I will miss the delicious family meals and chatting with the other cooks. I will not miss the smell of the meat fridge and having to play Tetris with the buffet towers in there in order to get to the freezer. I will miss the little nuggets about savory cooking from the Kitchen and Banquet departments. I will miss the sore feet. I will miss burning my hands on pans and cutting myself with knives. I will miss Kara, Dennis, Hilary, Chef and all the other who were so very welcoming to me and were eager to teach me everything from the grace of the line to pairing cocktails. I will miss Melissa and Ashlee who cheered me on and helped this little dream of mine flourish into reality. I will miss the pastry assistants, Jackie and Ashley, and the daily banter we got to share. I will truly, sorely miss Elaine Baker, who took me in and taught me everything she could. Who put up with my sass and shot it right back. Who taught me how to keep calm and carry on, and that dessert may be last, but that it should never be least.

I got everything I wanted to out of my externship. I learned more in a month than I ever could in a year at cooking school. My skills are honed, and my confidence in the kitchen a thousand times stronger. I can plate for two or two-hundred now. I can make sugar sing.

I entered as Garrett but left as Gianduja, Randy's Twin, and F.I. (aka: Fucking Intern). I leave as a baker with experience; a more confident cook and food writer.

-A collective calm in a sea of crazy.-

Spirits and Sweets

-A good spirit can compliment a good dessert.-

"Ooo, yeah, this might be difficult." Kara takes another bite carefully dissecting each component and processing it in her head. It seems that this dish has stumped her a bit. She quickly scoops up a bit of sauce with her spoon and pops it curved side up in her mouth in order to smear it across her tongue. She looks at us both, "We'll have to try a few different avenues."

She quickly pulls down three bottles from the glass shelves in the mirrored liquor cabinets standing tall behind her. She asks one of the bartenders to pull some scotch glasses over. Lots of them. Enough for each person: Elaine, the pastry chef; Kara, the restaurant and bar manager; a waiter, the bartender, and myself. We have a lot of drinking to do.

It's about two in the afternoon and while most might consider this a bit too early to be taking nips from the bar without paying for them we do this for work. It's a good day at work when you're sipping 10-year old brandy while nibbling a piece of warmed chocolate upside down pear cake with a scoop of vanilla ice cream and drizzled with a bit of pear sauce lightly spiced with green cardamom. I love this job.

Dessert pairing is the last crucial step in the development of a pastry menu. After the dessert in question has been developed, tested, and tasted (repeat ad nauseam until reaching a state of perfection) it's taken upstairs to meet the lead bartender and the restaurant manager. Everyone gathers around and we break down the core flavors. In this case we're focusing on chocolate, pear, and cardamom. (For the most part we ignore the vanilla ice cream as it generally pairs well with nearly everything and it isn't the focus flavor so its consideration is minimal.)

This particular dessert has been proving to be somewhat difficult. Each prime flavor generally speaks towards a wholly different kind of liquor. Chocolate prefers a dark beer or near ebony-hued port. Pears go with champagne and Eau de Vie. Cardamom's earthy coolness generally lends itself well to a spicy scotch and most amber rums. Since this particular dessert seems to go in every which way pairing-wise the group is at a slight loss.

"With the butterscotch pudding we went through about fourteen different pairings before we settled on a basic champagne cocktail," Kara notes. The champagne cocktail, champagne poured over a raw sugar cube soaked in bitters, was able to cut through the brown butter flavor of the pudding and highlight the brown sugar flavors making them sharper and more intense.

Kara pulls the cork on the first bottle, an Armagnac de Montal. It's a spirit whose flavor profile lends itself well to sweeter fruits. Kara pours a little in each glass and everyone in attendance takes another bite of the cake followed by a slow and careful sip.

Silence.

"I like it." I do. I'm a sucker for a good Armagnac, but this is outstanding. The flavor is light and has a sweetness that pairs well with the natural sugar in the pears and the golden, saccharine flavor of the caramel that covers them and that has soaked into the chocolate cake. Furthermore, it cuts through the richness of the cake.

Elaine and the others all concur. This is a winner. However, we soldier on, dedicated to our mission of finding an even more perfect pairing. A tough job, and all.

-The dessert list (as it was last week) with pairings noted.-

"Ron Matusalem. It's a spicy rum," the old-tyme paisley-inspired label looks promising as it fronts the dark liquid inside. Kara pours. Another bite and another sip. Another bite. Another sip.

The bartender, a slight girl who looks like a twenty-something Wednesday Adams speaks up first, "The cake likes the rum, but the rum doesn't like the cake."

"I agree," notes Elaine.

"What they said." I concur with not at all forced gravity.

After a drink of the rum the cake's cocoa flavors glow. However, take another sip after the cake and all the sugar makes the rum bitter and peppery, like liquid ash coating your mouth.

Like any pairing you learn not only from the good ones but from the bad. A cheesemonger friend once told me that you actually learn more from a bad pairing than a good one. The bad ones stay in your head and with that information you can generate a more concrete rule set for future pairings, whereas a good pairing generally only exalts that one particular match. Like hunting for a date online finding a good match takes time. Plus, food and drink are finicky with each other. There are many bad couplings and some just simply don't click right. It takes a few gos before you find and hit it off with the right one.

We all lift another glass, one filled with Germain-Robin, a fine alambic brandy. The flavor is strong and burns in retaliation to the softer pear flavors, and annihilates any hint of cardamom with its overly scotch-y flavor. While it might be delightful with a caramel cake or a plain chocolate cake it has no place with this dish.

"Hmm... I have an idea. I want to order in a black rum. It'll take a few days and I've been looking for an excuse to get some. I think that with this cake it'll fly off the shelves," Kara states enthusiastically. "I want more options to try with this," she nods at the dessert now destroyed by our many forks.

"Do a lot of people actually order the dessert pairings?" I ask.

"They do. More than you would think. In fact, if we have a rather unpopular liquor on the shelf and we pair it with something, we almost have to order more by the end of the week."

Like anything else, a good pairing sells itself. However, when it comes to dessert, pairings are often relegated by customers and simply being excessive and by restaurant owners as being a step too much and who are often content with simply offering a list of dessert wines and spirits (read: port and scotch).

In the end, we're in accordance. The Armagnac is the winner. Hands down. The new menu will be typed up shortly with the new dessert item and its decided pairing. In a week, once the rum arrives, we'll go through this process all over again.

-Blue cheesecake made with Point Reyes. On the side are heirloom grapes served in a Concord grape and Port reduction. It's all topped with whipped cream and a piece of hazelnut brittle. We serve it with Port. It is transcendent,-

Dessert Development

-What?! We have some frozen cranberries in the freezer? Who ordered those?! Quick, send them into a tart!-

"We just got handed a flat of figs."

My neck hurts as I lift my head up. It always gets sore after one of these chop-fests when I mise everything out for a recipe. I've just spent 10 minute de-stemming and dicing four pounds of figs for the muffins that'll be plated for breakfast and weekend brunch services. More figs means more repetition. The only possible plus side to this news is that I might be able to beat my personal fig dicing record of 5 seconds.

"What? More? Since when?" I ask before quickly snapping my neck around making it pop a few times. Elaine, my pastry chef, doesn't wince. She hates when I crack my knuckles or pop my bones and often yells at me to stop, but it's my bad habit. However, fig trauma seems to have caused her to go spontaneously deaf to it as she fails to chastise me.

"Well, we have a flat in the back that seems to have gone unnoticed and it needs to be used. It's been tossed our direction, as usual." Processing the problem Elaine begins to quietly talk to herself at a frenetic pace. A sort of prayer to the Baker Gods who usually send her an answer in the form of a cake or tart.

When she says "as usual," it's true. The pastry department is sort of the neglected youngest child of the kitchen, and as such we get the hand-me-downs from savory and banquet departments. Fruit in particular is often tossed at us with unrelenting and unsympathetic regularity. Baskets of soft berries, rock hard pears, ancient apples, and butternuts that are withered and aged like a village elder all eventually make way to us. We're the River Styx of produce, ferrying fruits and vegetables to their final destination.

Still, we make it work somehow. I've learned that nearly all fruit, no matter how bad it may seem, is redeemable. We toss the truly funky stuff: anything fuzzy, moldy, or with odd cultures that seem to show signs of intelligent life go to the garbage. Everything else is simply very, extremely ripe and ready to be used immediately. The whole process is reminiscent of cleaning out your attic: we trash the junk and see what can be re-purposed into something useful.

"We'll do a fig crostata. Easy, fast, and it'll be well received. We'll brush on a layer of fig jam first, place on quartered figs, wrap it up and cover the whole thing with a egg wash before sprinkling a bit of pearl sugar." The decision is made. Screw you, figs and time. You've been bested again.

-These tarts, created for a special event tasting, are an example of some of the more rigorously tested recipes we do.-

Recipe development is always in motion.

Of course, it isn't always this way. Not every dessert we run is decided based on slighted produce. We work seasonally and change out something on the dessert menu at least once a week to keep it shifting and new. Chocolate decadence came off today and chocolate upside-down pear cake is now on. Tonight we're also putting on a chocolate cherry bread pudding dessert special, a carryover from a banquet that ran yesterday. The bread pudding is luxurious, addicting, and we have a ton of it. Warmed in the oven and served with a cherry cause and freshly whipped cream any customer would slap their own mother for a piece after just one bite.

Our desserts are usually a lot more thoroughly planned. We test and re-test, taste and re-taste, and pair with liquors and spirits. We plan our little hearts out to make a varied, engaging dessert menu that diners will fall in love with. Our fondest hope is that you'll be wracked with frustration and indecision over our dessert menu because every item looks so good.

Elaine whips out the sugar while I continue chopping so I can get to sorting out the next box of figs. I ignore the crick in my neck and focus on the fluid motions of my pairing knife. As it laces its way through the fruit I realize that it, and I, are getting more used to the ebb and flow of this kitchen.

This'll be easy. You should have seen us last week with the bushel of blueberries.

I Swear

"Listen, you neglected prom night dumpster-baby..."

"Gosh, Garrett, don't mention your mom's sex life like that," replied Jackie in a dramatized huff.

"Oh please, she's a saint compared to your street walking mom. How is work in the skankiest alleys of Sacramento?" I shot back.

"Let's not confuse my mom with what you do on your own time off of work."

"Kids, don't make me come back there!" Elaine called out. She shook her head and didn't bother to look up from epic pile of figs she was slicing.

It took about, oh, a day before I was able to get myself comfortable in the kitchen and start bantering with the rest of the kitchen staff. The delay attributed to my having just started and I had to feel everyone out. Mainly, though, because my job working with children and families all day had finally trained me to zip up my sailor's mouth. Years of teaching my tongue to have a filter and all it took was twenty-four hours of flour, sugar, and backsass.

Elaine and Jackie, the pastry assistant, were more than encouraging in my blooming swearing streak. "In fact, you probably should be swearing more, otherwise you won't keep up with the rest of the kitchen," noted Elaine.

I had anticipated that I would have to enter the kitchen strong and stake out my place against the hazing. Enough reading of kitchen memoirs and hearing from occupational kitchen friends of mine who regaled me with epic stories of lewd conversations, immature practical jokes, and rampant harassment had given me enough time to mentally prepare myself. Still, I was surprised that pastry has the same sort of dialogue. To be honest, I imagined that the world of crostatas and cheesecake would be, well, sweeter. Something more filled with dainty rhetoric and innocent laughter. Not a world where the girl to my left is insinuating that I probably kept dead bodies in the trunk of my car with plans to sexually violate them.

However, the rest of the kitchen staff hasn't disappointed and my expectation have been fulfilled. Indeed, on day one another staff from the savory kitchen side, Dennis, slipped in behind me to whisper in my ear, "I fucking hate interns."

I smiled and didn't even both to look away from the pile of flatbread I was rolling. I let out a laugh that sounded more confident then I probably was, "Oh? And why is that?"

"They're fuckin' idiots man. What school did you come from anyways?"

"Social work," I stated as plainly as possible.

"What?" he was obviously not expecting this answer. Most interns probably said Le Cordon Bleu, or the local community college cooking program.

"I didn't come from a school. I work in social work, work as a food writer, and am currently finishing up my Master's," I huffed out. Probably a bit much, but the point was made: I was not your average intern and I want you to know it.

"Oh, man, you're the worst kind," he grumbled, but I could hear him suppress a smile without seeing it.

"That's what your mom said she thought about you at first. Sad thing she was right, isn't it?"

He pushed me on the shoulder, mumbling about the fucking interns while the rest of the pastry crew, and a few kitchen crew who overheard laughed. I mentioned something about finding out where he lived and murdering him in his sleep before getting back to work. Same old, same old.

It's a lot of fun actually, being able to verbally let lose like this. It's far more therapeutic than yoga, glasses of wine, or afternoon naps have ever been. The only thing I'm worried about now is eventually going back to the work place and bottling up again.

...Ah, fuck it. I'll worry about that bridge when I cross it.

I Bet Prison Food Does Suck

"Hi."

I stared at the text message a little bit longer, before quickly throwing my eyes back on the road. Generally, I keep my phone off when I'm in the car as my driving skills are already bad enough without the extra distraction. Still, for whatever reason, it was on and sitting in the car door. The text was one of the most shocking and surprising I had received in the last while. This was because I had heard rumors that the sender was either living in Redding, in prison, or dead.

"Huh," I muttered not so much surprised, but rather bemused and slightly annoyed. While you would think that a return to the living, or prison, or Redding would effect a more intense reaction generally I never cared for this person to begin with. Instead this felt like what it would feel to realize a mouse stole the cheese from a trap and escaped unharmed.

"What is it? Who's it from?" asked BF.

"Someone I hadn't heard from in a long time and, honestly, would rather not hear from at all," I said.

"Then why is the person in your phone?"

"Oh, I keep everyone in my phone. Even people I don't like. That way I know which calls to ignore or answer. Plus, I usually nickname people who are acquaintances in my address book - that way when and if they call I don't have to play twenty questions or pretend I remember who they are." Of course, if someone is dead I would normally take them out of my phone but since the fate of my texter was only dead via one third a rumor I, thankfully, kept the number and knew not to engage it.

"So who is it?"

"His name is L, a drug dealer friend of my Ex. I assumed L was dead, in prison, or in Redding. Though, given, those options are kind of the same thing." I replied matter of factly. "At least I can scratch dead and prison off the list. As to why this person is trying to get a hold of me I have no idea, nor do I care."

Never being one to really text and drive I deleted the text with a few rapid taps of my finger and tossed the phone back into the pocket of the car door.

A few minutes later my phone beeped at me again. My face scrunched up with puzzlement. I quickly glanced at the screen.

It read, "I've been reading your blog. It's good. Just got out of jail. Food there sux."

Wow... really?

I guess the rumor had been 1/3 true. It wasn't all that surprising.

L had been a major source of crystal meth hookups in Sacramento for years. Apparently, he was the guy who moved the drug directly from the source. He would distribute it to other dealers and take a large amount of profit since he was the central hub. To call his operation lucrative would be like calling the moon just a rock in the sky. He told me once he was making about $20,000 a month, and judging from his lifestyle this wasn't an exaggeration. A brand new Nissan Z and multiple pairs of Armani glasses with the shoes to match gave credit to his claim.

I came to know L through his friendship with my Ex - a friendship that was based partly out of similar music interests and amateur dabbling in the art of DJ'ing techno music (I know, I know...), and partly out of an emotional additiction to smoking crystal on the weekends. (The major contributing factor to the breakup with the Ex.) This meant that I begrudgingly made the acquaintnce of many pieces of the Nor Cal Tina Machine, L being one of the key cogs that kept it moving.

After the break-up I cut off nearly all contact with the Ex, and, so, did I as well with any of his friends. The only reason L's number was in my phone was due to the fact that my Ex had given it to him during a time his phone had been stolen from some tweaker.

So, L was in my phone. I never kept in touch with him. After all, he wasn't my friend. Honestly, I found him to be shady, dirty, and skeazy. Like a character out of Hunter S. Thompson novel he was a person of primal Id - pure impulse with an incongruous lucky streak that seemed to imbue him with great success at what he did. For someone who lived a life often characterized by poor decisions and frazzled psyches I had to give it to him that he knew how to run a business. More importantly, he knew how to manipulate and control his hazy, often disjointed, customer base and worker flow. Still, any luck at all in this black market, let alone skill to function in it, seemed fragile; it was a sand castle you knew was would collapse once the water came in, washing it away in one grand, ugly crash.

Eventually the wave came. From what I understand the cops busted in and razed the place taking away a sizable amount of product before carting him off to a expedited trial and prison. It seemed odd to be out so soon, but then again I didn't care to know the details.

Without a second thought I deleted the text.

L was never really a part of my life. I did my best to make sure of that and I prefer it this way. I appreciate his reading the blog and letting me know. I hope it's given him something to do or some sort of solace. However, I have a feeling that the compliment was probably an empty volley in order to engage me for, I don't know, information... whatever. It doesn't really matter.

"Hey," I look over to BF, "we have some ears of corn that need to be used and we have those green beans. Serve them with some fried eggs and salsa verde? It'll use up some of the chilies and tomatillos growing in the garden. That work for dinner tonight?"

"Yeah, sounds good," smiled BF.

Yeah, I bet prison food does suck.

That's How He Rolls

-The secret ingredient is love. (And wasabi.)-

There's a popular sushi place nearby called Arigato that I frequent whenever I need a quick hit of sushi. In fact, Arigato is where most people in my part of Sac go for their fish fix. I can call up my order at any moment - every self-respecting Sacramentan has the menu memorized, it's one of the ways we identify our own - and pick it up in about ten minutes. My usual: a Spicy Johnny Roll and a TNT Roll. If I'm dining in I'll grab a bowl of miso soup and some hot tea as well.

Arigato's sushi isn't exactly ephemeral, eye-opening, or even all that great, but it is half-price all the time. Furthermore, they're located in a middle class area of a lower class neighborhood and providentially near the California State University, Sacramento campus where hungry students roam. A combination of low prices and locale have made it a commercial success. They're now open until midnight and recently revamped the decor from J-Pop hip to a throwback Vegas-eighties kitsch that make me wish I would go spontaneously blind when I walk in the front door.

Still, one can't complain too much. The food is palatable and affordable. Any eater can certainly do worse.

Having a source so close I was surprised when BF mentioned that he wanted to learn to make sushi. While he's adept at the grill I had never seen him actively pursue a type of cuisine that I hadn't sort of nudged him into myself. It was downright surprising, if not just a bit odd. This was culinary equivalent to the president suddenly coming out to the press room to say we would invade Denmark. It just sort of left me in a "Wha?" state.

I encouraged him but with a slight of eye I rolled the plan as nothing more than a simple passing feign of interest. Yet he spent days watching tutorials online and asked me to help him do research to find a comprehensive sushi cookbook. I unburied an old sushi knife I had received in a conference goodie bag years ago (I had never used it due to its frustrating slant and bevel that made it perfect for cutting through sticky rice but useless for any other task). I explained he could line one of my bamboo placemats with plastic wrap and use that in place of a traditional bamboo roll.

The day came when he told me he was going to make sushi for dinner that night. I smiled and played the thankful food blogger, happy for a night off from cooking and happy for a potential blog post. Yet I had no high hopes that this would be anything grand.

-Better than any restaurant.-

I arrived home from work to find the kitchen a disaster. Plates and bowls stacked upon each other, starchy rice covered everything, at least four knives were strewn about haphazardly. I thought to myself that this is why I hate when others cook in my kitchen.

Yet, as I glanced at the counter I saw rolls of neatly trimmed ribbons of dark pink salmon stacked next to batons of cucumber and avocado. The air was sweet with the smell or rice, chilies, and soy. I realized I might have been a bit quick to judge. Apparently, he had made sushi.

BF motioned me to the table. Sitting on a plate were the handmade sushi rolls which looked, well, like sushi. This isn't to say it wasn't what I was expecting, it's just that I didn't know what to expect.

They were humble looking. Unlike the kaleidoscopic rolls you see in a restaurant covered in ruffles of avocado and buried in tobiko these where simple, dressed with a basic chili-mayo sauce. Next to the plate was a bowl, surprisingly, gratifyingly, of freshly grated wasabi. (I despise the phosphorescent blobs of wasabi served at 99% of sushi houses. It's all raw heat. The fresh wasabi was a horseradish with rumbling pungency that perfectly balanced the buttery flavors of the fish and fruit tucked in the rolls.) Lastly, there was a bowl of soy dipping sauce mixed with a bit of sugar and chili.

Taking a pair of chopsticks I rubbed a bit of the wasabi over the roll and then plucked it up for a quick dip in the soy before popping it in my mouth.

Lord, I forgot just how simple sushi is supposed to be. It's a cuisine born out of impoverished beginnings. You don't need the deep-fried, crab covered, unagi sauced, lemon spritzed jumble that defines modern, American-style sushi. Homemade in a small batch BF had crafted rolls that highlighted their ingredients. Rice, fish, cucumber, and avocado. A few condiments on the side to compliment these basic ingredients completed the experience. This was some of the best sushi I had ever eaten.

Even economically this meal was amazing. Once the key ingredients had been purchased - rice, vinegar, and nori, which would last for months - the rest was easy. BF estimated that considering how cheap sushi fish was, even at its freshest, the cost was minimal. After buying a pound of salmon, plus an avocado and a cucumber he realized he could make about six eight-piece sushi rolls, each roll coming out to a total cost of about $1.50.

I've requested that he continue to learn to make sushi of all kinds. My hope is to be spoiled rotted with fresh fish.

-Hello, little sushi.-

From Sichuan to Tien Tsin

-The flavors of Sichuan, China.-

While I rarely ever post about it I actually cook a lot of traditional Chinese food. It's what I was taught to make by a few Chinese friends and their families way back in college and since then it's pretty much stuck as my go-to cuisine due to its ease of preparation, general frugality, and intense flavor using a limited amount of ingredients.

For most non-Chinese people traditional Chinese food is a bit out of the way as it requires a number of somewhat unheard of or exotic ingredients that will only be used once, usually for a recipe seen in a magazine or on a website that sparked some one-shot culinary gung-ho. Afterwards, the bottle of oyster sauce and jar of chili bean paste is quickly forgotten on shelves behind the olive oil and two kinds of Pam.

The things is is that once you have the ingredients and learn how to really utilize them they become indispensable. I can't think of what I would do without my chili garlic paste, dark soy sauce, or Chinkiang vinegar. They've become part of my everyday pantry, and I use them for any number of dishes the same way another person might wield shallots or vegetable oil (which, incidentally, are also part of the Chinese pantry).

-Molten heat in a tiny package.-

Personally, I've always been drawn to the fiery broths, stir fries, and street side style noodles that the Sichuan (also Szechwan and Szechuan) Provence is so well known for. Chinese food expert, Fuchsia Dunlop, points out a common Chinese saying about Sichuan food: shi zai zhong guo, wei zai si chuan; which translates as "China is the place for food, but Sichuan is the place for flavor." It's a phrase I hesitate to argue against, particularly because the Sichuanese have a particular knack for taking a variety of tastes and weaving them into delicate patterns of flavor. Certain spices like garlic, scallion, star anise, ginger and any number of fermented bean pastes and chilies prepared in any number of ways are key to these carefully layered concoctions. Indeed, Chinese chefs boast twenty-three distinct flavor combinations (some entertaining examples are lychee flavor, strange flavor, and hot-and-numbing flavor).

To cover all these ingredients and flavors would require another blog so I thought I would talk about two of the defining pepper spices of Sichuan style cuisine: Sichuan peppers and Tien Tsin peppers.


Sichuan Peppers
Sichuan peppers are the most distinct flavor that characterize, even define, Sichuan cuisine. These peppercorns are the dried pepper husks of a shrub that grows in Northwestern Sichuan. Their knobby, pink, almost clam shell appearance is distinctive in the spice world. The seeds looks like average black peppercorns, but hardly contain any flavor. The pepper husks are lightly roasted before use to release their oils and heighten flavor in dishes.

For years, the United States banned the import of Sichuan peppercorns because of their potential to carry Citrus Canker, a bacteria that had wiped out scores of citrus trees in China and the U.S. Department of Agriculture was being cautious of. In 2005, the USDA lifted the ban but cautioned that all imported Sichuan peppers had to be pasteurized beforehand.

Sichuan peppers aren't hot in the traditional sense in that they don't create a burning sensation or have a pungent flavor. Rather, they have a woody, citrusy flavor that causes a tingly numbness (think of the buzz created on your tongue from a carbonated drink, or the lingering tickle of Novocain when it begins to wear off). This is caused by hydroxy-alpha-sanshool, a molecule common in the Zanthoxylum genus of evergreen shrubs.

This particular flavor is prized in Sichuan cuisine and is often paired with sweet, salty, and savory flavors but is most often seen mixed with hot chili peppers to create an intriguing layer of heat and numbing which excites the palate and encourages a pleasurable sensation. They are often added near or at the end of the cooking process in order for them to retain their flavor and numbing qualities.

Most people aren't too familiar with the spice the first time they try it and may not know what to look for or how to identify it in a dish. As such they may add too much and overpower a dish making it extremely medicinal and bitter. If you are first encountering a Sichuan pepper try the following experiment: pop a pepper in your mouth and chew it gently two or three times and then spit it out. Wait a moment and then you will notice the lemony, woody flavors followed by a slow, creeping tingle on your lips and tongue. DO NOT chew a few of them for an extended period of time. Seriously, you will hate yourself.


Tien Tsin Chili Peppers
Tien Tsin peppers are named after the province in which they're grown, Tientsin (which is the romanized spelling for Tianjin). The chili is also known as chao tian jiao, or "facing heaven" chilies as they grow pointing upwards. They're short, fat, and a lacquered burnt-red color. They're also incredibly fragrant and have a slight Italian red-pepper flavor which, at the same time, is both quite pungent and musky.

These peppers are sun-dried and quite light, but contain a high number of seeds. Shaking one you'll hear a loud rattle as they violently bounce around waiting to be released. Don't be fooled by their size though, these chilies are extremely potent. While the flavor lies in the dried fruit, the seeds are searingly high on the Scoville scale. Some recipes may ask you to toss the seeds so that the pepper only lends the flavor of the fruit. The seeds are incendiary and if not reigned in with a steady hand can easily overpower a dish.

To use them just snip them in half or grind them into course flakes. For soups and stews many people just toss in a chili or two whole to flavor the broth. Often times people may substitute a Thai chilies which are even hotter and will make a dish inedible. If this is the case use a third of the number of Thai chilies you would use in place of Tien Tsin chilies for a recipe.

-The prettiest of peppers.-

These spices are becoming quite common in Asian markets and can easily be purchased at affordable prices online (I use Penzey's). I encourage you to try your hand at using these spices and giving some traditional Chinese cooking - like Kung Pao Chicken - a shot.

Book Club Brunch

-A simple tart always impresses your guests.-

For the first time in what seems like forever I finally have enough free time to sit down and actually read a book on my own. The past many, many years have been plagued with assigned readings where a 400 page novel had to be completed, processed, analyzed, and written about within a seven day time span. Epic rhetorical essays had to be understood with the expectation that their key points could be regurgitated - eloquently, I might add - on request. Theories about teaching, composition, and how to instruct English-as-a-second-language students were to be compressed in whatever corner of my crammed little mind.

It's no wonder I wasn't doing any pleasure reading. For the longest time my brain simply rejected any written words that didn't have an immediate practical applicability that was somehow related to my GPA. Even reading the most pleasant and beautiful food blogs resulted in mental projectile vomit, my head crying in the spaces between words, "No more!"

Only now do I finally have a moment to breath and read. I can graze over the words and ponder them. I don't have to question what Derrida would think (I'll give those of you who don't know that name a moment to look him up, and those that do a moment to recover from the trauma) or the postcolonial interpretations of what the text is saying and what its greater implications upon society as a whole are; or, you know, whatever stuff like that.

-A phenomenal read to chat about over a meal with friends.-

Still, I do crave thoughtful literary discussion. It exercises my brain and gives me a chance to socialize with like-minded people, so it only made sense that I start up a book club. I called a few close friends: a fellow grad student who had graduated before me, a friendly food blogger with Mexico ties, a techie and a few others who jumped at the idea. I proposed meeting in thirty days to discuss our first selection, Amy Tan's, The Kitchen God's Wife.

The book is a wonderful read; thoughtful and dramatic, funny in all the right places and usually leaving me wanting dim sum. However, it was how I read the book that was so staggering to me. I read for fun! I was so proud of myself! I read my book without pen and highlighter in arm's reach. I only noted a few passages I found funny or especially poignant so I could bring them up to fellow book club members and pick their brains. In previous years my books have always ended up marred in annotations and underlinings, or flagged with so many little post-its it looked like the binding was spouting more ribbon than a Mardi Gras float. My copy of Tan's novel only has a few penned in stars and two dog eared pages.

The book club is something I need and enjoy; moments of friendly debate, co-misery, and gushing. The members fill me up and energize me not just for literature but other intellectual activities, like cooking. The club meeting was an opportunity to gather friends together and cook them a perfect little meal.

-Talking about a book is difficult when your face is full of cake.-

I was torn between cooking Chinese food, a cuisine I'm competent at and which would have matched the book, or what I considered to be stereotypical book club fare like salads and teeny sandwiches. Taking into account it was dry and 102 degrees outside I went with the latter and developed a menu that, by pure happenstance, was totally designed by my friend David (even if he wasn't aware of it).

David's almond cake is one of those practical recipes that I added to my repertoire a few years ago. It's easy to throw together at the last second and always produces the same amazing result: a cake heady with almond flavor and an incredibly moist crumb. Served with a bit of fruit macerated in sugar and spices it's a simple crowd pleaser that's appropriate for any occasion at any time of year. The fact that it was all almond seemed to also synch up well with the book where almond desserts abound.

-The drama shot. Blueberries are always dramatic.-

Before the cake I served a simple tomato tart that David wrote up a few weeks ago. It was one of those recipes that just hooked me and sat in my brain niggling at the front of my skull knocking around asking, "Ya' gonna' make me yet?" The book club meeting proved to be the perfect chance to serve this. An easy recipe with a big wow factor. It tastes like sun and cool, grassy breezes. Served with chilled Rose wine it was a wonderful way to usher in our first meeting.

Overall, the meeting went well as people felt each other out and learned to express their opinions in the forum. I found how enjoyable a novel really can be and how light exploration can force you to turn over a good book and look at it in a new light. Similarly, it gives you an excuse to exercise your creative juices in the kitchen and fuel your friends for riveting discussion.

-One of the easiest tarts I've ever made. If you use a pre-made frozen tart crust this is even easier, though making your own is simple and tastes better.-

Listen

Sometimes we only realize how easy we have it when we get to know the misfortune of others. This makes us sad, upset, even angry when we encounter it. We anticipate depression and awkward feelings in our future, but no feeling as awkward as the ones you feel when immediately confronted by the person or situation.

When my work asked if I would take on a special project, instructing a cooking class for foster, homeless, and at-trouble youth, I happily said yes. It was a chance to combine my love of teaching (yes, this is what all this MA hullabaloo is about the past few years) and cooking. Furthermore, it would give me a chance to better interact with the kids my company works with.

I've been shadowing the current teachers, a delightful retired couple who after five years are ready to hang up their apron strings, in order to learn about their process, see what works and what doesn't, and let the kids get to know me a bit better and me them. They've invaluable and hilarious and make the process all the better. I listen and learn the things I need to know (how to fix the tripped breakers), want to know (what dishes you should avoid teaching, like making pasta from scratch), and don't want to know (what kids have cutting problems).

Now, rounding up thirty-plus twelve to eighteen year olds (some with kids of their own) and trying to accurately instruct them on how to use a knife safely, use a skillet without burning the chicken, or seed chilies is a unique sort of chaos. You only let it reign so much in certain ways. It cannot ever be fully quelled. Rather, you find little problems and offer little solutions which give you and the child a sense of accomplishment. Total control and having them all listen is, I've learned, an impossibility, but some do listen and in that you find joy when one of them comes up to you the next week and excitedly tells you she made dinner for her new foster family and they couldn't have been happier. Then she thanks you, and you're glad you listened and realized how much those small things mean.

Yet, listening is my real problem. I hear too much. Things I'm not ready to hear because I cannot respond. Many of the kids attend the cooking class because it is simply a meal, and I turn a blind eye if they decide to make more than one mini-apple cake even though we're low on ingredients because they might not get to eat tomorrow. Something that terrifies me when I realize some of them aren't even old enough to drive. Or listening as one of them tells me how she slept in a tree the previous night to keep herself safe from drug dealers and other crazy people on the street. How she tied her shoelaces together around a branch as a means to keep herself from falling out and hurting herself. (It worked, surprisingly.) And all you can do is listen, because sometimes that's all they want at the moment, and, honestly, there's so little I can actually do except help her read the recipe and teach her to make an apple cake because someday, I hope, she'll have a kitchen to do this in and someone to make an apple cake for.

And all this listening makes me sad. One of the therapists on staff tell me not to worry, many programs, like the one I work for, do what they can. Many of these kids will be alright, and, at the same time, many won't. You do what you can and sometimes it works. When it does it keeps you going. It keeps the moral glitter of what you do shining.

The bad feelings only last so long. It makes me feel guilty or even ashamed to say that after an hour or so I soon feel overjoyed and thankful for just how bad I have it. I have school debt? I didn't get to the gym? I'm almost out of wine? Fuck my problems. I slept in a bed last night. Life is good and my problems aren't that epic. Comparison is at times one of the greatest lenses of perspective.

Next week I'll be there again. The class will work and stumble its way through making stir-fry and if we make it through without any injuries I'll call it a success. I'll teach one or two more how to properly use a knife and I'll listen to whoever wants to talk.

Mistaken Prostitution

Re-wrote this old restaurant review I originally posted back in 2006. The restaurant, 55 Degrees, closed about two years ago. The meal was forgettable, but what happened beforehand was anything but. ~Garrett

I had postponed getting together with my friend Kim and her hubby twice at this point for various reasons, so this time I was determined to not miss this dinner date. Unfortunately, I had come down with a bit of a cold, so after almost a bottle of cold medicine and a heroic amount of multivitamins I sluggishly tromped my way out to downtown. Luckily, even though I was sick, my taste buds had not been affected, so eating out was still an option. Kinda.

We had decided to meet up at 55 Degrees, one of the more contemporary restaurants that could be found on Capitol Street. Its steel and glass aquarium design created a chic, elite, sterile feel where politicos of every stripe came to dine and impress their guests. In a sea of suits and Prada loafers we were sorely out of place, but we heard the food was good and decided to wade through the business formal in a business casual manner.

Now, funny story on the side - I arrived about 20 minutes early so I paced around outside Capitol Street taking in the tall, abandoned scenery. It seemed I was the only person on the street which was both awesome and creepy in an Apocalyptic/Freddy Kruger movie sort of way.

After a while having exhausted any bits of garden or sculpture to examine I leaned back on a dimly lit lamppost and checked my test messages. "10 more minutes. - Kim." It seemed they would be late. I looked up to find my line of sight locked with an idling car a few meters away. The car then drove up, rolled down the window and a doughy, middle aged man poked his head down to look at me to, I assume, ask direction. This would be his loss as I was still relatively new to exploring Sacramento having rarely left the town of Davis. He looked at me, "How much?"

At this point my face contorted into I can only imagine what (probably something of a placid, white hot rage) as I stated in a dead tone, "I... am not a hooker!" His face went pale. He looked away and in an instant the car screeched off with a trail of smoke from his tires burning out trailing behind.

Great. This was worse than the time my I couldn't flag my mom down at the airport to take me home because I was wearing my dingy, old hunting coat. She thought I was a crazy homeless person. (Thanks, mom. And, yes, I still wear the coat.)

Stunned. I turned around and saw Kim and her husband and I ran up to them. "Hi! Sorry we're la-"

"Do I look like a hooker!?" I screamed in a slightly frantic manner.

"...What?!"

I explained. Kim conferred that I did not look like a prostitute and we attributed the pervert's mistake was due to my pacing Capitol Street, leaning on the lamppost, and my hunting coat which, yes, I was wearing. Maybe it was the blush that my slight fever gave, possibly street light gave my sickly paleness an alluring street-walker look? She thought the whole damn thing was hilarious, and in retrospect, it is.

Either way, lesson learned: no more walking the street in dingy coats. That, or, ask how much first.

Trials of a Mussel Slut

I refer to myself as a mussel slut. I'm one of two, actually. My friend, Kate, is just as slutty as I am when it comes to these precocious little bivalves. Every so often we'll hear of a delicious plate of mussels being served at a restaurant here in Sacramento and we immediately call a Mussel Slut Meeting in order to go and get our fingers wet in broth and ocean-brined sauce. Our commitment is inspiring and respectable, a dedication toward pleasure on behalf of these tasty critters.

Of course, it's more than just taste. Mussels are sustainable and usually farmed under small production conditions that don't have a lot of impact on the environment. Since they're farmed year round you can find them served at restaurants at any time, in fact more restaurants are generating their menus around them due to their impressive flavor and striking visual appearance (who isn't awed by a steamy plate of pasta pierced with the long obsidian peaks of fresh mussels?).

And the cost? Well that's one of the best parts. I cook mussels pretty often, usually as I attempt to recreate a dish I had at a restaurant once Kate and I have pumped the server for all the ingredients (see, slutty). A pound of mussels usually go about four or five dollars, which isn't bad. You do have to assume about a quarter of them are dead so you may usually want to buy a quarter-pound more mussels than you think you'll need but overall it's a fiscally sound dish when it comes to purchasing seafood.

Take them home, drop them in some water while you prep. A quick, though often tough, debearding - No gym needed on mussel days! Work your muscles on those mussels! - and another quick rinse, and you're ready to go. They cook up in a flash and always fill the house with that distinct sea smell. A quick rendezvous in the kitchen with stellar results across the board. Whether served in a Belgian beer broth, a classic white wine broth, tossed with tomatoes and cream, or perhaps in curry they're sure to be a winner.

Now, no relationship is perfect. Being slutty always has its risks and downfalls, especially when it comes to mussels. My relationship with mussels has been, at time, tumultuous. This is to be expected as accepted risk of being a mussel slut.

Of course, this doesn't always come in ways you might expect it. Going into the ocean and accidentally swimming across a shallow colony of mussels is a good way for these humble little bivalves to unintentionally exact their vengeance upon you for your voracious decimation of their brethren.

When I was on the island of Nevis my brother and I had swum out into the ocean to a giant floating trampoline (yes, just what I said, it is as awesome as it sounds). After a few hours of rambunctious play, bouncing, doing flips into the water, and overall being stupid, exuberant teenage boys with a newly discovered toy we decided to go underneath the trampoline. The way it was set up was that it was a well constructed inflatable ring buoy that suspended the net well above the water's surface and kept it taught. The buoy had anchor ropes at eight ends tying it tightly down to an anchor at the ocean floor. These eight ropes all converged together to a central anchor line about 5 1/2 feet below the surface of the water.

When my brother and I swam under it we were overjoyed, a sort of secret cove we had discovered where the strangely filtered light cast an odd fractured shimmer across the water. We sat around enjoying the scenery when, suddenly, I felt a knife slice through the bottom of my foot.

"Ow! Jesus! What the hell was that?!" I looked around and my brother seemed perplexed when suddenly he too was slashed across the top of his big toe.

We looked down to see that each rope was covered in mussels. Tiny narrow colonies built upon one another starting about four feet down. Their tips were razor sharp, and when a paddling foot keeping a heavy body afloat skims across their calcium carbonate shells, well, the flesh will loose.

"Oh crap!" my brother called, and he began to swim out from underneath the trampoline and I followed. However, in our initial kicks, the wind suddenly twisted the trampoline and with it the colony covered ropes and our feet were lacerated further. We looked down at the tiny trails of blood and, like any reasonable person who saw Jaws, realized we had three minutes before a shark swam in at sonic speed after smelling sweet, sweet blood to devour us in a grizzly manner. I don't think I ever swam that hard in my life.

Once we made it to the shallows we tried to float on our backs to the rest of the shore line as walking on the sand was too painful. Our exposed feet however were however suddenly swarmed by tiny salt water minnows who in great numbers circled our bleeding feet to snack on the bits of exposed skin and meat. While it technically tickled (as one can describe a tickling feeling while being utterly disgusted) I was horrified at the realization that I was, literally, being eaten alive.

Fucking mussels.

Now this isn't a common occurrence. This sort of body wrecking by a tiny bivalve is rare at best, often brought on by inexperience or lack of forethought. If you're a mussel slut you have to make good choices and use protection. Food poisoning, the STD of eating, is your real concern.

Mussels become quite toxic when they die and this toxicity grows shockingly fast. Generally this is easily avoided by tossing out any open or broken mussels before cooking and the unopened ones after cooking. Easy enough, right? Well not always. Sometimes one slips past. Like last night when we had mussels. And I had one that was funky. My guests were spared.

Now, there are few worse places to get food poisoning than in a movie theater, but then, sometimes, that's just what happens. Praying to God that it would be quick and I would only miss the opening credits before the movie started I sat in the Men's Room in sweat and fear. I did not want to be sick in public. Let alone trapped in a stall horfing up curry colored vomit. I actually hoped, hoped, for diarrhea rather than throwing up.

Later (I will spare you any details), I felt fine and dandy as if nothing had ever happened. Apparently it had simply been one rogue mussel, one that I assume simply died on the way home right before he was cooked. I went back to the movie, sucked down some water and then was gleefully watching Sex and the City 2 and wolfing down the candy I had smuggled in.

Yes, mussels are a trial and tribulation, one well worth the effort as any mussel slut will tell you. Just be sure to be cautious around them in the wild (wear your flip flops) and toss any and all dead ones out (though one may slip through). Whore it up for your favorite little bivalve; they're tasty and more likely than not you'll have a delicious dish. Serve with beer and crusty bread.