I'd shoot the moon down

Triple 000 flour caked upon my clogs

three batches of ravioli made today, one too wet, one too dry, final batch was perfect

The one person I want to see at the end of the day miles away

I respect it, a mother needs her daughter

A lonely man needs some libations, but this lonely man needs a change
A change of pace, of scenery, of learning to sleep next to someone

It's been far too long and the moon is full every night and it shines
It shines so bright but what does it mean?

Is it a change of pace? Of lifestyle? Or of love?

For I love what it is I do

The sizzling pans talking to me in their familiar chatter
The food, oh it speaks to me in colors

It talks to me, it speaks to me and informs me of when it's done
When it's done being cooked

I've lost my passion, I've lost my dream

When really they are so close to me and maybe I can't fathom
How close I really am
I'm doing what I want to do...

I'm teaching a kid new to food

New to cooking, new to the world I love so much

What the world really has to offer

An Observation On Life

So this is really more of a rambling rant of some sorts to put thoughts on paper
More so than a "blog" I suppose but isn't that what this is for?

I'm in the culinary program at El Centro and to get into Advanced Food Prep
You have to what?
Of course graduate Basic Prep
Let's just run through a list of things that happened tonight, shall we?

One group fucked up making a roux...twice.
I've realized that girls are afraid of fire and heat and stoves...but they are totally okay with
Convection ovens of sorts for baking, yet you are afraid of frying an egg
Someone in class with me didn't understand the phrase "cook free or die"
Re-fried beans that come out of a bag and made with water taste like fucking cardboard
Add all the bacon fat and seasoning you want...it tastes like cardboard
Most of the class doesn't know how to move, importance of speed, timing, etc.

Or perhaps it's me...maybe I'm the one that's driven to move as fast as you can
With as minimal movement as possible as to not waste time and energy

It just really scares the shit out of me that people think that becoming a Chef
Is something you can learn in school while working at a fried food joint
Sure, it's all about learning techniques and not recipes
Style and finesse, accuracy and timing
We aren't there to learn new dishes

Maybe it's just me though
Sometimes I think well, my Chef is hardcore and started the way I did
Never went to any formal training and pushes me harder than anybody I have ever known
I think at times why am I spending time, energy, money to go to class
It hit me last night that I do all this to learn technique
Flavor profiles, composition, style and the list can continue

Oh look, I have an example of irritation
Next week we are doing a "sit down dinner" whatever that entails of
My group is stuck with doing sides for the entree
Old school French way of doing roasted chicken leg
Coq Au Vin
Sides I picked out...
Haricot Vert with caramelized shallots and almonds
Wild mushroom risotto
What the class voted for...
Sesame seared snap peas and green beans
Herb crusted roasted potatoes

Now, the potatoes I'm cool with but mixing classical French and Asian?
The chicken is roasted in wine, baby onions, and carrots
You want to do sesame and Asian styled food with that?
Really? I mean fucking really?

Sure we can change the recipe but only slightly
And you expect that to work out and taste well?

Some days I just have to push myself and remind myself that I'm doing this
For a greater reason, a greater cause, an improvement upon myself

If I've Learned Anything Over The Years

I got into my first kitchen by a graceful, beautifully, poetically written mistake.
I never knew what I wanted to do for a living, let alone I sure as hell didn't feel like growing up
And facing such a challenge. Admit it, it's kind of scary to think about isn't it?
My first kitchen consisted of me dabbling with a heroin problem, 5 dudes living in a 2 bedroom apartment, yet we all worked together.
One Lead Cook (prodigally at least), one prep guy, a server, a doorman/host, a good friend, and me.

I thought I knew what family meant, but you never really see it until you work in a kitchen, and a good one.
I could tell my immediate family about a special I ran at work that sold out
They wouldn't be able to feel what my heart feels
I could tell them I have this awesome kid who is a lost and confused dishwasher who wants more
They can't see his drive through my eyes
Even if it's not related to the industry at all, for all I know he really wants to be an aviation mechanic, but he knows if he busts his ass...he'll get his chance

For the first time in a long time, too long to be honest, I'm proud of where I work
I'm proud to sling plates into the pass and watch them fly away merrily by the waitrons
Who, some of, might actually loose the nickname of waitron, some won't
The Civil War hostility between the daytime and nighttime kitchen staff
The constant moaning from my right hand man,the constant talks of pissing, moaning, beating off won't change shit
Let's keep doing what we do, and let it shine
I can walk away from a nights work knowing I gave it my all, and hang my chin high with pride
Monkey see, monkey do is your typical line cook
Monkey see, monkey do, monkey loves what he does...that's me

There is a fine line between waitrons and cooks, but when a waitron offers to jump on the line with you awaiting orders?
I can't describe family anymore in any words better spoken.

Untitled Number 2

Sometimes it takes not working in your field
to finally find your passion, your dream, your livelihood
Simple chords, simple whistles through your teeth
with pursed lips, blowing air to make the sounds

A complicated fear that is an on going irrational fear
But is irrational?
I think not, for fear is what drives us
fear on some level moves us, motivates us, pushes us

My biggest fear?
I have plenty of skeletons in the closet
They awaken me every morning, and haunt me every night
They, like me, like us, wait patiently for something to happen

It's all about the fire inside us that makes us move
Makes us live, breathe
I'm trying to swallow this all down
But a pill is hard to swallow when it's a feeling you don't want

Understatement

It could be the random heartbeat of faith,
It could be the something is honestly wrong
I saw eyes tonight, amazing eyes
Soft, succulent, mesmerizing
In the end?

I can't find the truth in them
The truth in his
Body language is non-existent
A tongue gives the verbal truth
While the eyes reveal the story
Behind the blinders

Past the language, of tongue, and of body
The hands, the extension of a mind
The eyes, an extension of the soul
Both have ways of touching a body
A friend lost, a story gained

Truth? Is but of a memory
A tongue speaking words
A pair of eyes speaking
A mouth moving with crimson lips
Giving nothing more than an explanation

A scent, a smell, a feeling...
A feeling of belonging, a feeling of distraught
The body commits acts of lies
Deceit
A body is formed

The moon against the starry sky is a new
Dark, present, but not quite alive
Still shines a path
To the wreckage we create

Breakthroughs

So, if anybody has ever been in a recovery group, or at least knows the process
The one phrase that gets repeated most is,
"Most addicts will give up their addiction, only to breed another"
Something I heard all the time, and even now six and a half years later I finally get it
Sure, I gave up my drugs, picked up the suds, but that's not the breakthrough
The breakthrough came when I realized something,
Something mystical, something new

All the schemes, the lies, the trickery, my aggressive nature, my destructive habits,
My nightmares, my fantasies, my attention to detail...
It all came back into my hands again, it came into a new realm
It came into food, it came into my dreams, my ambitions of one day being a Chef
All those lost years and hours spent looking to score,
All these years and hours spent looking to make a perfect recipe
For all I knew for so long was mix one part blind ambition, tack on a little baggie
A few twirls of the hand...perfectly numb, perfectly oblivious,
perfectly broke, but that was my escape

The equation strangely remains the same, but has different coefficients
Some new variables to take into consideration

Sometimes the question of "who are you?" isn't the best
At times it's better to ask "WHAT are you?"

Untitled

So, someone once asked me to write something about them
More so, dedicate a blog that nobody reads about them
I've thought about it for a couple days now, and this is the result

I don't understand you, something about you I can't comprehend
Maybe it's me not being able to comprehend my ownself
I think however, it's something far deeper than that
My inner webbing if you will

See, as humans most things that we can't understand frustrate us
Things I can't understand drive me...whether it be for the good or bad
Moderation is a goal, it's a key asset of life
It keeps us a class above dogs, but when you really think about it
What really makes us better than dogs?

Sure, most humans don't lick assholes, shove their nose into an asshole,
fail to see the excitement of our loved one coming home
Offer protection of their life to their loved one
Hell, even play the game of fetch
I'd kill to be a dog for a day

I'd kill to be a care-free, child again, but I know if I went back in time
Did this different, did that different
I wouldn't
I couldn't even do it if I tried

Everything in the past events of my life, my joys, my sorrows, my mistakes
My loves, my dreams, my ambitions, my failures...
They have all made me who I am today
Some may say I'm a walking contradiction, a train wreck, or even a ticking time bomb
I'll agree only on one condition
I feel things, I see things, I open my eyes every morning in search of something new

My biggest fear is that one day I won't see this, I'll hit that plateau
I'll view my life just like every other asshole in the world
Wake up, shower, work, eat, sleep
No, that's far from my routine

I find it funny that you have a bucketlist, and call yourself an adventurist
I fail to see the sense in adventure in you
I see your opinions based on what other people say, think, and even feel
I bet you buy you're panties on the basis of "well, my friend looks cute in them"

You seem to strive on other people's opinions, yet fail to make your own
It's been said, "nothing gold can stay"
Nothing gold can stay, in fact, everyone has their own faults, and downfalls
A new heir to the throne, a freshly made man full of greed who wants it
Who will stop at nothing to fulfill his desires
What, though, are his desires?
For he surely doesn't know
He sees the success in the one above him, and wants his dream
Not his own dream

In my profession, it's all or nothing
You give it everything you have, blood, sweat, tears, innovation, time
You name it, I give it...but I'm not alone in this ambition
I secretly strive for perfection
The perfect dish, the perfect family, the perfect meal
For it's not just food, it's the memory it leaves behind with the people
That's what it means to eat
Good friends, good memories, and even better times
The food could be terrible, but if you remember the times you had...
You'll come back, over, and over again

I'll put my childhood very bluntly, and very short

I grew up with my own thoughts, doing my own thing, usually by myself
I played sports in my front yard, I'd hit a tennis ball with a baseball bat
I'd chase it down through yards and repeat for hours
I'd play hockey at the park, with a big traffic trash can as my opponent
I'd work on my moves, I'd practice for hours until I hurt too bad to skate home
My dad never saw this, never saw my triumphs
My parents would fight, I'd cry myself to sleep, at times I begged my father not to leave
My dad hit my mom, she stopped me from getting to him with a bat
I was still in elementary school

Skip to middle school
I got kicked out of my house
I lived with my aunt and uncle, they taught me how to live
They taught me what family really meant, and living in a family
I think back to my grandma playing kickball with me as a young kid
I digress
I started playing more hockey, I started to grow, I made friends
I still have and wouldn't trade for the world
Memories I'll never forget, never be able to escape

High School
I started my downward spiral, only to bring myself back up
I had a close friend of mine pass away, my last remembering thought before he passed
He stopped me in a hall way, asked how I was doing, and we chatted a few minutes
I never knew he was going to pass away the next day
I was too distraught to attend the funeral
At graduation he would have sat next to me at the ceremony
Instead, an empty chair, a folded gown and apron tucked away underneath
The drugs came and went, and took control
I signed into rehab myself, I needed to get away, I needed to sleep
I found the person I fell in love with, and still think about time to time
I broke up with her, I had to get clean, she didn't do them
She didn't do what I did, but I, me, myself, got myself clean
6 1/2 years my drug of choice free, and since then only done drugs twice
Considering I lied, cheated, scammed, stole, and was terribly into my addiction...I think I did well

Skip the off years, and into kitchen life

I started not knowing the difference between a French knife, and a boning knife
I just knew I had a desire to learn, to be the best, to recreate the cooking shows I watched as a kid
To imitate what my grandma did, what my mom did, what my grandfather taught me about grilling
Learning our long talks over the grill, what they all meant, what life meant, what it meant to live
So, here I am...a few months away from 21, and my Chef thinking I was older
Just to take the edge off of my intensity, I was allowed a couple pints before my shift
I moved up in the ranks, I'd spend all day in the kitchen, the staff slowly got weeded out
Cocaine issues and an escort problem with one cook always needing more money
A culinary student who couldn't hang with the, what I presumed at the time "big boys"
A slowly dying restaurant, and the front of house all having a drinking problem
I never felt so alive
A barback who would tell me how he walked across the river to get to Texas
How he sent money back to his family, how terribly he missed them,
As well as mexican remedies for everything imaginable
Those doors closed

I have ever since been bouncing around from place to place
Searching for family, for comfort, and more so...good money, and even better food
I've lost family, friends, love gained, and love lost
I've worked with great people, I've worked with shit
In the end? I've learned from everyone I have ever worked with
Every shift, every time I punch the clock, I cut myself, I burn myself
I've learned

I aim to please, but there is only so much I can do
I can't fix everyone, and I guess this is me moving on, this is me evolving
The past is a very real thing, but we can't dwell it
We can only move forward, think in the future, think of dreams coming true
My advice to you is dream more

Live out your dreams, just dream
I seem to live in nightmares, I live in pain, I give myself the pain
I work in a hot, enclosed space, no windows, sharp objects, open flames, and a dead carcass to make beautiful
Of course, I'm a bit of a mess...

But, in the end? I love every minute of it
I'll make something of myself one day
It's progressing
I'm a work in progress

Hellview

So, I keep having these strange, almost reoccurring dreams
Same plot line, but never the same instance
I'm always searching for something, or someone, a longing desire
I know myself...or so I think I do

Of course, I'm always longing for something, and have a desire to obtain a goal
Or a dream in this case
Maybe it's a longing for my own kitchen, my own renegade ship of pirates over the stoves
While I sit at the helm, giving the fire commands and sending molten hot food plates out

Perhaps it could be a longing for closure of my fallen family members
Actually knowing who my father really is, and finally hearing the famous
Words from movies as the father lies on the death bed, "I'm proud of you son"
It could be my subconscious desire to be better than what I am
Having my hand back, and going about my merry way to the land
Of white picket fences where I once was

We are all dressed in decay, in the same familiar realm trying to escape from ourselves
I however, don't wish to escape...I want to discover it, I want to discover myself
In depth, not just the surface

The Stars Meet The Sky

Found old high school memories, old friends faces, and their notes scrawled on paper
Looking back, I realized I had drive, I had an unbreakable spirit
Nothing could ever bring me to my knees, no person could ever bring me down
I pushed myself to be better, I pushed others to be better than me

I think an old high school mentor I had put it the best way

"You're a strong kid, you've overcome a lot, and have a leg up over most people you're age. Always keep pushing yourself"

I read that, I read it aloud, I even spelled it out
Didn't hit me
I looked through the eyes of someone else at things I've done
That's when it hit me

What I create, what I cook, what I do to me is normal
It's my vision, I already have dreamed it up in my mind
What it will look like, taste like, smell like, what it will be
So, really to me it isn't anything new

But stopping to sit down and look, not just look, but through a foreign set of eyes
Stopping to read through a different brain, not my own for once
Speaking words through a tongue that isn't attached to me
Looking down at my hand, what my ignorance and frustration caused

I know my calling, I found it, but someone made me question it
Something burning inside me caused me to be weary
But in the end, today I finally heard what I should have been listening to the entire time
My heart

Cook Free Or Die

Sure, it's a phrase that Bourdain himself has coined, but I don't really feel that the majority of his readers (fellow cooks, and chefs alike) really understand on the level he was aiming at.

To cook is to create, is to live, to breathe, to love, to laugh, to be. Cooks beat to the tempo of a drum that most people never will understand, and some fellow cooks for that matter will never understand. To cook free is to find appreciation with what you're cooking. To be able to harbor a so called "endangered species" from an "unknown source" and cook the hell out it into something amazing. It's to take a shark filet and make a tartare, it's to be able to deep fry something in whale fat, it's to put foie grais on a club sandwich, it's to make a dish out of sweetbreads.

It seems that many of the cooks I know seem to have a falling out with their passion, what they do, also tend to forget what drives them to do it. For me it's more than the half way decent paycheck, it's more than the first sip of a cold beer after a long shift, it's more than the first cup of coffee in the morning...hell, maybe it's the first cup of coffee alone that helps drive me.

Most of the time we are going into work, or already at work by the time you are about to head into work, or we are about to end our shift by the time you're going to bed, let me tell you how amazing grocery shopping is at 4 in the morning.

Maybe I spend too much time trying to put into words what drives me, and what is a true definition of my passion, my nature if you will. Surely most of the people reading this won't understand it, and half the time I don't because I can't fully express what these words, the tastes, the memories I have really mean. Maybe I just have this blog as a giant white board to see my thoughts, my progression...yet still I can't narrow it down as to what my main passion is for cooking other than the process itself.

If I could do anything over in life it'd be to do it all over again the same way. Sure,I could make wiser choices, but in the end the result wouldn't be the same.

Blood Deep

Our blood runs deeper than a family geneaology
We come from different races, languages, and expierances
But we all come from the same sadistic family

We find love in what we do
We push ourselves to learn more, do more, and produce more
We break barriers that "others" set before us

We're the ones that skipped high school classes to smoke and get tattoos
We're the ones that showed up late, half asleep, and cheated on tests
We're the ones that had no clue what we wanted out of life

We fell victim to drugs
We "hustled" we sold, we stole, we "lived life"
We didn't even know what life meant

You keep your 9-5, you balance the books for some asshole
You push the pencils and scribble on paper
You put on a suit and tie every morning as you kiss your wife good-bye

As for me?

I'll button up my chef coat, tie my apron, and fold my rags
I'll shove my hand into a 450 degree over numerous times a night
I'll grab something straight out of a fryer and place it on a plate

In the end? I love what I do
You?
I pay you to do the things I don't have time to
In the end of it all? I love my job, and you?
You just have an income

A Letter to the World

Let's face it, I'm a cook for a living. I see more than you do, do more than you do, and find some sick almost fetish love for playing with open flame, sharp objects, and dead animals. I see an entire leg of lamb to break down, and my rocks get off. I want to make this perfectly clear though, I'm not standing here, stooping, bending, leaning, reaching over hot flame, into an oven, or exclaiming profanities while hot oil splashes on my hands for your pleasure. I'm not a waitress/waiter/server/busser/bartender. I'm a cook. I make them their money, they make the business money, and I made what made you your tips. Who do I have to thank? My dishwasher usually night prep guy.

I deal with the hot, dead, shit, I make something out of at times, absolutley "nothing" in your eyes. Do I do it to please you? Do you even notice my O.C.D. shining through when I get pissed off something falls out of place? No. You see the food, you love it, it smells great...you're happy. Am I? No, for I am a borderline perfectionist. I read you as a person like I read the tickets. You order a salmon filet well done? I automatically assume you want EVERYTHING on the side, you're covered in cat hair, and are probably going to write a shitty review of the restaraunt. You order a salmon mid-rare? You have hopes, dreams, and ambitions and know how to eat your food. If it comes out a little underdone? You won't complain, but oh holy shit if it comes out mid-well chances are you'll bitch and whine and offer to teach me how to cook a piece of fish.

Truth is, food is not all shaped the same. Sorry. It's just how it is. I do my best to find the best filet I have to cook to the temp you want, but sometimes things happen faster than you expect. Don't even get me started on well done steaks and people bitching it's taking too long and how "the entire table has gotten their food...where's mine?" Well, you did order a well done filet. I'm pretty sure the cook told the server, hell, even before the cook told the server he/she said "it's going to take a good 20 minutes".

Everyone is so caught up in this "celebrity chef" bull shit. Don't get me wrong, I do think Batalli is a great chef just like I think Paula Dean is...but everyone sees such shows as "Hell's Kitchen", "Chopped", and "Top Chef", and think what we do is easy. Tell you what, how about I give you a basket of mangos, leeks, and halibut...what are you to do now? You have NO idea how to put them together. Now, honestly do they really go together? Probably not, but I'm sure if I put thought into I could find a way.

I'm just merely stating that the pissed off waitrons who bitch and whine about their job, the cat haired old ladies, the so called "food snobs" because they happen to eat beluga roe when they were 7 and their pallette far under developed, the well-done steak ketchup on the side, the well done "can you make a steak sauce?", the "can the kitchen make a cocktail sauce for my butter poached shrimp", the "I want my seared tuna well done", the burger well done going "it's dry", the "I want my steak rare...oh no, it's too bloody, I guess I really didn't know how I wanted it done..."....you all can blow me. OH! And you want to bitch at the waitress saying the food/service sucked? If you can't afford to go out, than don't do it.

The waitrons do a service to the cooks of serving the food, the cooks make the food as it's ordered, we make them money (usually a lot more than we make) and why, you ask? It's the direct definition of passion. Any asshole can cook a steak, but to really love, and try to understand what made that steak so great, the cut, where it came from, how it came in, how it was cooked, what it was cooked in...that's my job. I don't think you could stand back here and feel what I feel. I feel heat, exhaustion, and an undying passion to become something far better than what I am now.

Bullies

I was bullied as a kid, probably a little more than the others
I was also a fat kid...I kinda had it coming and then I stood up for myself
Everything changed then, I mean EVERYTHING
I had the "feared" respect, and learned at a young age I was a bully myself
Well, to some extent at least.

I'm a bully in the sense of I'll push you farther, harder, and be more honest with you than most people you will ever meet
I grew up watching one cooking show religiously, I even faked being sick to watch it
Was it because I wanted to cook? I wanted my own show? I can't decide
He demonstrated in very broken English what he was cooking, but also showed the history of the food, where it came from, how it came to be, and what it consisted of and the small village it came from

That's what drives me cook, the history of food
Tonight at work I harassed some girls ordering because they were afraid they would say the entree wrong
I, in turn taught them some French (the very few terms I know, and taught them the French terms that are common you don't realize are French), and also taught them some Spanish and we spoke back and forth in Spanish

At the gas station buying a pack of smokes I had a girl yell out "donde vida?" I replied with "I think you mean donde mota, and no, I don't smoke" "Well, you're a chef where does your inspiration come from?" Realizing she was a complete and total un-educated, and quick to draw assumptions I replied with "I drink a lot of whiskey" I played the introvert card.

Inspiration isn't a direct result of intoxication. The mind itself is setup to be creative, we just miss it half the time. If Silverback Gorillas can teach themselves to stand and walk on their legs, we as humans can in turn realize where we actually come from and realize what we really are. What really makes us, drives us, and excites us. Sure, intoxication might "heighten the senses" but in the end? It's merely thoughts we subconciously choose to ignore.

I wake up the same way most people do...one pant leg at a time, I drink my coffee, I eat what everyone else does...frozen biscuits, sausage...etc. The realization that chefs eat like "normal" people is something that should be understood. We, most times, cook hundreds of meals a day...you really think we want to "cook" food after working 14 hours a day? Hell no. We eat like "normal" people do. We aren't seperate from you by any means, we just have a drive that is viewed as, and I quote from a lady tonight at work "you have to be kidding? You are in school from 9-3, in a kitchen and will go to work from 4 to 1 am?" "well maam, if I didn't love what I do, I wouldn't go to school for it. Cooking professionally isn't for everybody. It takes a special person to do it. Just promise me you never refer to cooks as artists...we, basically, are craftsmen. An architect makes "art" but it's still classified as a trade, a craft, same as a carpenter."