Who is tired of seeing me post about blackberries? You? Oh. You don’t count. Who else? Nobody? Good. Then it’s settled. I made more blackberry stuff. And I’m still not out of blackberries, so plan on them keepin’ a-comin’. Here you have a blackberry and apple crisp with some leftover blackberry ice cream. Warm, cold, gooey, crisp, sweet, tart…it’s an experiential commotion going on here, and it’s great. Apple crisp is good, just ask any of your more talkative Amish friends. Adding blackberries to the mix, however, despite being kind of citified and fancy, might make the Amish change there non-musical tune.
Some griping about culinary school:
-Fois gras is gross. You don’t agree with me, and I’m okay with that. I saw one whole today and it looked like a malignant tumor. No short Anthony Bourdain interview with Hudson Valley Farms is going to make me any more fond of the stuff. And stop telling me the birds like having diseased livers. It’s a filthy lie.
-I don’t want to put tinted curing mix in all of my food. I don’t care that the evidence about its cancer-causing capabilities is “just speculation.” I don’t like to leave my cancer-free-ness up to mere speculation. So next time a garde manger recipe calls for it, I’m just going to ignore it and substitute salt. After all, it’s not like we’re saving our duck confit. We’re eating it SAME DAY. I’m not adding artificial preservatives for the 10 minute wait between the cooking pot and my own personal belly.
-I’ve stopped making our class recipes altogether and have started just foraging around for ingredients in the walk-in, then making what I feel like making. Tomorrow I am making carpaccio and fried artichokes instead of the shrimp mousse we were told to make. After all, I really like carpaccio, and I really don’t like shrimp mousse. Then, instead of making malfatti salad, I am going to make Nutella mousse. Because I love Nutella, and because Carino is way more fun to play with than the members of my group. Plus, they’ll be busy making shrimp mousse.
-The root word of aspic is ass. As in, “tastes like.”
-The pants on my chef whites are now mid-calf when I sit down. I asked for them in a 34″ inseam, but was told those don’t exist. If that’s the case, then how come my chef, who is 6’7, has pants that are long enough but mine look like I stole them from an Oompa Loompa while he was busy pulling children out of the river of chocolate?
-I’m tired of putting my hair in a ponytail every day. It’s all broken and unattractive now. WTF?
That’s all…for now.