Ms. Glaze's Pommes d'Amour

Wild Mussels! How to Clean & Debeard

NOTE TO READER: I JUST FOUND OUT YOU CANNOT REMOVE MUSSELS WITH TOOLS! MUST DO WITH HANDS ONLY! GOOD LUCK!

Jeeps McGee, my trusty vehicle, starts up with a gutsy roar. The performance exhaust shakes me with thunderous throaty vibrations. My coffee cup perched precariously on the dash spills while disco competes for attention on a station I don't remember ever having set (was I really listening to this last night? Yikes!). My overnight duffle is happily absorbing the jus de chaussette I was very much looking forward to. Some happy New Year this is!

After an onslaught of holiday parties, I am throwing in the cocktail dress and pulling on the workboots. I sink a few bucks into Jeeps McGee's big belly and put San Francisco in the rear view mirror. Pescadero here I come...

Me and McGee are so in our element. We are noisily cruising down 280, bouncing up and over the curvy Skyline mountains down to Highway 1. I reach Half Moon Bay and my 33-inch flame tread tires screech left onto the Coastal Highway.

Ahhhh, the ocean....

Today is beautiful. The Winter sun crisp illuminating the Pacific on my right like a bright and blinding sequined serpent. The fields on my left bleak and mostly tilled under with random rotting pumpkins left unloved. Cypress trees, like tortured twisted shadows with desperate outstretched arms edge the endless blue. Weathered farms dot the coast.  

Artichoke soup, dungeness crab, and  olallieberry pie – here I come!

Part I: Farm to Table Lunch, the Cooking Team

The Puente organization asks me to do a farm to table Thank You luncheon at Echo Valley Farm.

How can I say anything but yes! to a nonprofit that provides vital services for families living in the rural San Mateo South Coast communities of Pescadero, La Honda, Loma Mar, and San Gregorio? 

Otis the Pup & Chicken Processing

Time to do some weeding. This blog is seriously overgrown.

After two years of barely having enough time to respond to email let alone cleanse the ridiculous spam from my inbox, I'm back. Refreshed. Renewed. And seriously annoyed that I have let Viagra Online take over my blog.

Even my namesake website address, Msglaze.com, which I failed to renew has been poached. Why would anyone use my name for a Japanese travel site? And a Russian site has been copying my content and won't remove my plageurized posts. Ha-rumph! And double shaking fists!!!

Regardless. Today is a big day at Echo Valley Farm. And I have not slept.

My nightmares have been disturbing. I wake in the middle of the night paralyzed with fear and force myself to move again. My throat is tight and no scream could escape even if life depended on it. After what feels like an eternity of frozen hell, I crawl out of bed and lock up my sweet little cottage just in case there is anyone on this enchanted farm that feels like making my fears a reality.

6A.M. comes around much sooner than expected. Man, doesn't it always?

Sweet!

Year in review: I packed up my stuff from New York and drove out to San Francisco. Opened (or re-opened) three restaurants. Two of which could really go nowhere due to lack of funding, but great learning experiences nonetheless. And one that I finally call home: Citizen Cake.

A conversation plays back in my head, my exit talk with Eric Ripert at Le Bernardin. Where we sat and chatted for a good half hour or so in private about life, cooking, and the future. A luxury rarely afforded at such a busy restaurant with a chef whose time is highly scheduled.

He said, “It all clicked for me here, all my years of hard work, it clicked into place for me here.”

It did not click for me at Le Bernardin, but I recall his words vividly and daily because I feel that way now. Every little thing I’ve learned along the way from every single restaurant. Including Le Club and Circa and Le Bernardin and Guy Savoy and Ecco. It now adds up.

It shapes every aspect of my kitchen today.

From the way I cook fish and meat, to how I make stocks and sauces, to what kind of team environment I want and don’t want, to what it means to mentor and train new cooks, and how to be a better chef.

And there is still so much to learn. Like how to not burn myself out. How not to burn my self. How to let go. How to trust. How to inspire. How to better manage payroll and restaurant numbers. How to keep personal life in balance (Not very good at this one yet). How to stay creative. How to stay in season. How to stay strong.

Opening a restaurant from scratch, from construction site to wow-people-are-actually-sitting-down-and-dining is a miraculous event. I sometimes look out from my very open kitchen and wonder how it all happened.

Only two months ago we were scrubbing the floors, setting up metro shelving, testing recipes, polishing pastry cases, unloading plates and dishes, ordering dry goods in bulk, hiring our first team, and staring at each other wondering how it was all going to get finished in time.

Now we have cakes in the pastry case, a vibrant and professional serving staff, a kitchen staff that is positive and talented, and food to serve for lunch and dinner. And we have Open Table so people can make reservations. What more could a chef ask for?

We survived/thirved the holidays shortly after opening our doors. Which for a restaurant that does a huge amount of specialty pastries, confections, and cakes is no laughing matter. Our amazing bakery put out all sorts of pies for Thanksgiving that decorated the walls pink in their pre-ordered carry boxes half way up to the ceiling.

People lined up on the street to get first dibs on the Christmas stollen, bouche de Noels, and eggnog cheesecake. Not to mention the ginger bread men and woman that flaunted bikinis and bright colored swim trunks. The restaurant was booked solid on New Years – no reservations on Open Table left to be made – and was filled with holiday shoppers morning, noon, and night.

And now, just when we thought we’d gasp for air, the reviewers are piling in under the radar. No one can let down their guard, not even for a second. And with the way things are today, everyone is a reviewer.

There is no such thing as a “VIP solo diner” anymore. I recall at Guy Savoy the resounding “Très, très soignier!" (very, very clean) from Chef Guy himself for solo diners that might possibly be Michelin scouts. But here in the States every person is a VIP yelper or blogger or twitterer or word-of-mouther.  That’s tough for a new restaurant. But good. It’s the way it should be. Bring it on.

For me, one of the greatest gifts Citizen Cake has brought is the opportunity to work with Elizabeth Falkner. A great Chef and mentor.  I love the creative freedom, I thrive on the tips and hints that make me a better chef, I appreciate the wisdom that comes from years of experience. And the female connection into the cooking world has been enormously helpful and resourceful.

My team is awesome. Two have left, but they are forever remembered in our hearts for all their hard work and energy in the early, early days. And our newest hires are brining fresh energy daily, which we greatly appreciate. We enjoy cooking together. I think it shows in the food. 

Come in!

 

Echo Valley Ranch Rules

I jump in the jeep and peel off down the coastal Highway One towards Santa Cruz. Radio blaring, hair stinging my eyes with the wind whipping it every which way, the salty sea air cleansing the grease off my skin from my kitchen after a very long, very chaotic, very exhausting Sunday brunch of 200 plus people. 

Free at last. Free at last. 

And although there is plenty of trouble to get into on a late Sunday afternoon in the sunny Marina, I need to get out of town or I can't truly relax. To go where my cell phone doesn't work. To be in wild blackberry bushes, and chicken coups, and zucchini plants up to my ears, and holly hocks and sunflowers towering over my head, and heirloom tomatoes ripe for the picking, and collard greens begging for attention. 

I need to be at Echo Valley Ranch in Loma Mar, California. 

One of the most enjoyable parts of being a chef in the Bay Area is making connections with the farmers. And I'm partial to the ones around Pescadero and Half Moon Bay. 

Why? Because half my family lives here and I grew up on this coast boogie boarding and camping on the beaches and picking artichokes on the side of the road and buying beans at Phipps farm and getting fish just in off the boats. 

I cracked my first dungeness crab at the local institution Duartes as a toddler. And have picked endless flats of the relatively unknown but nonetheless delicious berry, ollalieberry, to make jam with my mother. 

Kate and Jeff Haas are the proud owners of Echo Valley Ranch. And they grow an array of beans, greens, squash, herbs, carrots, potatoes, and more. They also produce farm fresh eggs. (Although it can be quite challenging to find out where the chickens lay their eggs since they run around the farm at will - I even found one nestled at the base of a redwood tree) 

I mentioned awhile back that I would really like zucchini flowers and maybe some interesting varieties of squash and now I've got so much of both I'm practically throwing them into all my dishes. This is a good problem to have. 

Squash blossoms are a specialty item because they are difficult to transport. And for those who have suffered squash fatigue (I just picked all the zukes last night!!?! How is it possible that there are a gazillion more this morning??!), laugh not. 

Although it is true that one plant can overwhelm a family and inundate a neighborhood with endless "gifts", restaurants pay top dollar for flowers and baby squash.

Currently on the menu I have handmade fettuccine with scallops, Laughing Bird shrimp, sautéed squash blossoms and dill white wine sauce. I have a walu (butterfish) garnished with stuffed blossoms in tempura batter. 

But that's not all: I have grilled baby pumpkin and summer squash and a zucchini & basil soup garnished with basil-mint oil, crema, and micro cilantro. The only thing I don't have (and should have) on the menu is zucchini bread. I love zucchini bread.

This is my second home. 

I walk out in the gardens and pick bright colored rainbow chard, nasturtium blossoms, peppery arugula, red runner beans, corn, squash, carrots, basil, and tumeric root. 

I look at the bounty and brainstorm dishes for dinner supplementing with whatever protein is in the fridge. Kate pitches in and we cook together on her old Merrit O'Keiffe stove in well seasoned cast iron pans that make everything taste so much better. Jeff pours wine lending a hand where needed and always adding his sense of humor. 

We polish off God knows how many bottles of wine (whose counting anyway?) and close the night with wild blackberry pie and coffee.

The roads through Loma Mar are windy and I never make the trek home after dinner. Instead I stay in the meditation cabin just feet from the river that surrounds the property and close my eyes to the music of water rushing over smooth rocks and pebbles. 

My shoulders relax, the crease in my forehead disappears, I smile at my good fortune to be in such a magical place, I am at peace.

For the moment...

I still have to find more recipes for all the flats of blossoms and cases of squash I know I'll be driving home with in the morning.

Circa, A California Bistro!

To walk into a pre-established restaurant and change a menu top to bottom that has been in existence since before the dinosaurs trampled the earth and deliver a totally different concept and style is not an easy task. Taming T-Rex at Jurassic Park without a tranquilizer gun would be far simpler.

But with optimism, stressism and hardworkism I can now say that it is not an impossible task either. And the light at the end of the tunnel is finally burning brightly. Most importantly I have an oustanding team that is able to execute new ideas quickly. Even if it means five minutes before we open the restaurant. 

"Hey Sarama... you know that avocado salsa verde you made for family meal yesterday?"

"Si mama..."

"Can you make it again? I want to use it with the olive oil poached Walu. For tonight. Like right now. It's delicious."

(roll of eyes, slight smile)

"Si mama..."

So what is Circa? Where is Circa? What is the history? What is my position?

Circa is located in the Marina. It's most famous at the moment for its clubby night scene which takes over my dining room on the weekend after the last desserts go out. And this place gets packed. Lines outside the door and down the block until early in the morning. 

The restaurant's last claim to fame was under the guidance of Top Chef contestant Erik Hopfinger who brought his big personality and comfort food. He also brought this animal called brunch with bottomless mimosas and eggs benedict samplers (choose two of seven choices). Anthony Bourdain dedicates a whole chapter of our Brunch in his latest book Medium Raw. Read the chapter then I'll give you the lowdown. 

And I am not changing the eggs benedict sampler. Why? Why would I intentionally put my cooks and myself through this confusing torture every weekend morning? Because my cooks can handle it and they make the various hollandaise based sauces correctly and they poach the eggs to order (unlike some restaurants). If you don't like eggs benedict then try the Huevos Rancheros. It is the best in the city. A lot of love goes into it.  I challenge anyone who thinks there is better.

I was hired on as a consulting chef to change and implement a new menu and new style. But it became clear that there needed to be an executive chef to execute it. So I am filling those shoes as well. Now you understand why I haven't posted for a month!

Circa has a large local crowd and we compete with other Marina local hangouts like Balboa Cafe and East Side West. My goal was to create a menu that locals would come in and enjoy a few nights a week. Something fresh and seasonal with my own feminine style. A California Bistro. 

I focus on highlighting the purity of excellent ingredients and draw upon unique world flavors to do this. And my training in fine dining helps to deliver a clean approach and a beautiful plate to the client. 

For example, Sarama's extraordinary avocado salsa verde is a perfect match with our Poached Walu Butter fish with grilled heirloom baby pumpkin that is garnished with a laughingbird shrimp stuffed zucchini flower lightly fried in tempura batter. 

Our scallops are seared and placed on a bed of sautéed pea shoots sauced with a black garlic reduction and tiny hon-shemeji mushrooms scattered around with sugar snap peas – a sexy hot appetizer. The salads showcase interesting produce from heirloom carrots in an array of colors to heirloom tomatoes in all their glory. 

God, it's good to be back in California! 

Not that I ever thought I would be flipping patties, but our hamburger is seriously delicious served on buns made down the street at Chestnut Bakery (best bread in the city in my books). The burger is thick and juicy topped with whatever you can imagine. My fav is piling on bacon and blue cheese with sautéed mushrooms. But if you want to top it off with a fried egg we will happily comply. 

Don't wear a white shirt if you order the hamburger. (There is a dry cleaner's right next door if you forget) 

So the days of Erik's half chicken with garlic mashed potatoes and sautéed spinach or halibut over mushroom risotto are long gone. But we still retain a few of his masterpieces like the white truffle lobster mac-n-cheese and the black and white bread pudding. 

And the brunch. 

Oh my God, the brunch. 

These will live on! 

Savoring the Last Bite and Swallowing Hard

I know you know that when I don't write a blog post for two months or longer that things are either going really well or...

Let's cut to the chase: I quit.

No sympathy please. The warning lights were blinking before I actually packed all my belongings into a U-Haul and traveled across the country. But I guess at heart I just wanted my own kitchen and to do my own food so badly that I ignored all advice. And, I wanted to come home. 

After seven years of living in foreign countries (and I think New York can be included in 'foreign countries') it is great to be on native soil. And I am thankful that this opportunity brought me home. 

Let's chalk it up to: tough economic times and different goals & expectations. And the fact that the restaurant was completely bankrupt before I even came abord. Being the server, the chef, the cook, the dishwasher, and the kitchen cleaning crew was never going to be sustainable personally. And would never allow the restaurant to be truly successful on many different levels. And I simply can't live off air.

Again, I knew that walking in. So that's a big lesson learned. Why does learning have to feel what I assume childbirth must feel like? Incredibly painful but ultimately rewarding? And then just a blissful memory that makes you want to do it all over again?

But there were fun times and awesome food. 

And I must say a big 'Thank You!' to the Nob Hill locals who often pitched in helping me wash dishes or even cook on the line. And there were often flowers that appeared on my prep station, and mint plants, and glasses of outrageously good wine that found their way back to the kitchen – even two enormous barrels for making sauerkraut and pickles! 

My chef's table, in the kitchen right next to the line, received great write-ups and was very romantic. I would  turn off all lights in the kitchen (accept under the piano) and light candles and play jazz music entertaining couples while cooking them dinner only two feet away from the line. 

The private dinner parties always successful...

The countless hors d'oervres parties, often several in one evening with just two cooks (including me) to prep while serving dinner simultaneously were exhausting and a true test of skill or just sheer nerve...

But my deepest regret is not getting the Truffle Burger (or 'Ramin Burger', pictured above, named for a regular who was adamant about having a truffle foie gras burger on the menu) up and running. It was in the works and is delicious. And yes, seared foie gras for an additional charge. Bien sûr!

I guess I'll have to save this one.

I feel great about the food I did and the work I put in and I have no regrets. The restaurant business is tough and it is often hard to accept that even the best intentions, the most skilled and creative employee, and the most sincere hard work cannot save the day. But often, it can't. 

So the question is: where am I going to next? And that's a big heavy question because the options include a contract overseas, a position with a legendary San Francisco chef who I get down on my hands and knees and pray to, or my own kitchen in a restaurant that has a successful trendy/chic bar scene. 

The options are exciting and I'm still exploring them. I would like the next restaurant I end up at to be the last restaurant I end up at for a good long time.  

Never A Dull Moment in the Kitchen

Oh dear Lord, are you kidding me? I've got to have a quarter in here somewhere to feed the meter. Please God let there be a nickel hidden somewhere in this car, in this purse, on the floor, in my pockets....

Panic sets in. 

I walk to work and it's a beautiful sunny march up the hills of San Francisco to the tippy top of Nob Hill where my restaurant resides. I am loving life. I am smiling the whole way. Butterflies, birds, and cute Disney woodland animals are gathering around my feet and coming to rest on my shoulders and finger tips. Life is beautiful and perfect. 

Approaching the front door to Le Club excitedly wondering if all of my orders have made their way yet, my mobile phone rings instantly yanking me out of my fairy tale fantasy into the world of grown ups, responsibility and (gasp) reality. 

"Hi Amy, I've got some bad news for you. Your company credit card was denied on your meat order so we won't be able to get out to you today until you clear that up."

I stop dead in my tracks with my restaurant in front of me, the TransAmerica building looming in the distance, the bay bridge magnificently reaching out to somewhere else, sailboats gracefully gliding with colorful spinakers on the sparkling Bay. I look up at the Art Deco restaurant sign embossed in bronze elegantly marking the spot "Le Club" and want to cry.

"I don't know how this can be. Let me call the owner and get back to you immediately."

The owner is not in San Francisco. In fact she is not in the state and getting ahold of her will be a problem. I dial. No answer. Redial. No answer. I leave a message...

"Gina? It's me. Listen there's a problem with the credit card and I don't know why. All my orders are stopped. It's 1 P.M. and we have reservations for the evening. Should I slit my wrists now or post 'closed for maintenance' on the door?"

Immediately I get a call back. Thank God.

"Hey Babe, no I just switched our bank accounts so we could use the bank down the street for deposits. It's so much easier. I'm sorry I didn't tell you this. I didn't think about your food orders. I'm super sorry hon. Will you be okay?"

"I dunno. It's too late to get them to do a delivery now and we have to re-fax all the new credit stuff. I'll be fine. No worries. I'll make it happen..."

"Take my car. The doorman at the Le Club has the keys. Get whatever you need and we'll cover it sweetheart and I'll call all the vendors right now."

Le Club is located in a very old apartment building on the corner of Clay and Jones. Originally when it was opened it was a private dining restaurant only for the tenants of the building. Eventually Le Club opened its doors to the public. But still, to this day, in order to enter the restaurant you must pass the front door test. 

I take the keys from the doorman, locate Gina's car, and speed over to Clement street in the Richmond where a thriving Asian community resides with some of the best produce, meat, and fish in the city. The supermarket May Wah is always a zoo, but the prices and quality can't be beat.

Heart racing, clock ticking, panic setting in knowing that if I don't get my shortribs in the oven in an hour they will not be ready by the time we open. And they take time to prepare. I cut them off the bone, trim the fat, clean the bones and re-wrap them like little bone in filets mignons. It's not a fast process.

A parking space opens up right outside the super market and I flip an illegal U-turn in the middle of the street cutting off traffic. Horns blare, middle fingers are cast in my direction, I don't care. Tunnel vision has taken over: must get meat, must get meat, must get meat, get the meat, get the meat...

My veins turn cold. No change!?! I have no change?!?! There has got to be something in this car for the meter. Why me? Really? 

I'm talking to myself at this point pulling up car floor mats, dumping out purse on passenger seat, digging through glove box, climbing over back seat with butt sticking up in the air shoving hands into backseat pockets, cushions, and crevices.

Et voilà! A dime! That'll buy two mintues of time. Awesome!

Entering May Wah is akin to willingly checking oneself into an insane asylum. It is a madhouse filled with chefs, cooks, locals, and out-of-towners wanting to view the spectacle. I approach the meat the counter and thankfully the butcher recognizes me and cuts off other people lined up to help me out.  

We don't speak the same language, but that doesn't matter. I point at the shortribs and ask for 20 pounds. He pulls out the ribs, places them on the counter, and lets me inspect them and pick the ones I want. I motion for him to cut the ribs crosswise for me in 2-inch pieces.

This is why I really love May Way. They have a huge band saw right behind the counter and will prepare anything the way I want it. 

The butcher zips the ribs through the saw expertly cutting them to my needs. Wraps them. Smiles. I grab the bag, tell him I love him, and race to the chicken aisle where I can pick out my own birds and carcasses for stock. God I love this place.

The line to pay is wrapped around the frozen food section. I cut off everyone again. No one says anything to me. My terror-ridden expression and chef's coat says it all. I pay and run out the door to the car. 

The meter is blinking "expired, expired, expired..." and the metermaid is writing a ticket just two cars down from me. I hop in and speed off like an escaped convict. 

Pulling up to Le Club, once again, but this time with adrenaline pumping I toss the keys to the doorman and run to my kitchen with groceries in arms. Thankfully my fish has arrived on ice. They must not have run the credit card today. 

I turn the radio up full blast, turn the ovens up full blast, and turn the speed up full blast. This is going to be a good day afterall.

The ribs are nicely braising and the clock is inching closer and closer to 6:30 P.M. I am ready to rock. My helper, Danny, has arrived and he's finishing the garde manger prep. Everything is in place. I've mopped the floor and washed all my dishes. 

I open the restaurant. The bar is looking beautiful. The tables are set. The bartender is gorgeous and professional. The cocktail waitress is ready. The bar back is ready. And I'm ready for a shot of tequila – no lime.

My first table arrives. Life is perfect and beautiful. Butterflies are flocking to my fingertips again. I retreat back into my very happy place and get to work. 

Gina arrives later in the evening looking glamorous as ever. No one would even know she just stepped off a plane. Champagne is popping and customers are happy.

Never a dull moment in the kitchen.

Murder & Redemption in Sweet Home Alabama

There is a reason that redemption comes after murder. I suppose you could redeem yourself first and murder after, but that’s just not the natural order of things…

Eric and I pull into a small town called Falkville in Alabama not too far from Birmingham after a seven-hour drive from Charlotte, North Carolina. “My Aunt lives out here… somewhere…” I think out loud as we drive through land that looks uninteresting and rural in every direction.

Grey, everything looks grey. The blue sky is smoky and dusty orange from a controlled burn, the land has yet to spring into green, the trees thin, twiggy, and barren.

We pass countless little churches with spiky white steeples pointing rigid and straight up to the heavens. The signs outside quote and paraphrase various bible scripture that do more to scare people into prayer than welcome with open arm: “When you die, you will meet God” and “Heaven or Hell, you choose.”

Eric and I come up with our own versions, the best being: "Admit mistakes and get good returns."

And in between these small simple white country parishes are supersized churches. Religious compounds. They look powerful. A twenty-foot banner hangs from the side of one Baptist mega church like an advertisement for a new movie: The hammer, the steeple, the body…

This church looks like a business not a humble place of worship and I can’t help but to wonder if there are actually enough people in this sparse county to fill an auditorium that no doubt seats 2000 people or more. And I wonder if the little parishes are even full on Sunday.

This part of Alabama is a dry county. And there is something about this that irks me.  Well anyone trying to tame my bottomless wine addiction puts me on the defense.

The people that I meet at the truck stops and along the way to ask for directions, because my GPS is lost once again searching for signal, are warm and gracious. They are friendly in earnest wanting to help and chat about where we are coming from and where we are going to. They are as curious about us as we are about them.

Why here? Why would my Aunt want to live here? This is some lonely living. No movie theaters, no bustling down town. The closest center of action, besides the supersized Babtist churches, is a Wal Mart Mega store where you can pick up groceries, clothes, jewelry, electronics, and more.  No beer though. You cannot pick up beer. No ma’am.

We peel off Highway 31 onto Old Highway 31 and my GPS is telling me my Aunt lives on the left but there is nothing but hay bails on the left for miles.

 We look right and see a long gravel driveway leading up to a gracious old brick house. I see my Aunt’s P.T. Cruiser parked outside and know this must be the Tune Farm: Annie Tune’s Certified Organic farm.

We pull the Budget truck slowly up to the back porch where a harem of multi colored cats are lounging lazily and looking distrustful of our presence through bright yellow and green eyes. A fuzzy grey jezabel walks to my feet and curls her bushy tail around my ankles attempting to inlisit a back scratch.

I knock on the door and nobody answers. God, I hope we’re at the right place! We walk in and I know we’ve hit the mark from the mix-matched antiques that have a certain country comfort kind of feel. It’s like an Anthropologie home store, feminine and rustic.

I call through the house for Annie and no one answers. I run up the stairs searching the five bedrooms for signs of life but find nothing but space heaters buzzing room to room.

The only sign of life besides the cats are a pair of peacocks that make the most God awful squawking noises.

The sun is setting and the temperature drops drastically. I thought Alabama was supposed to be warm but it is freezing cold. Much colder than New York. Eric is still in shorts and doesn’t seem to mind the frostbite nipping at his heels.

We search the tool shed, the old animal barn, the back forty my teeth chattering uncontrollably and come up empty handed. Then we find the greenhouse.

“Lordy, lordy! It’s Missy Glaze!” My Aunt calls, dropping her hand shovel and coming up to me with wide stretched arms. “I jus can’t believe you’re here!”

She gives me a big hug, grabs my chattering jaw with her warm hands and says, “We better get you inside! You’re freezin’ to death!”

 

 

  This is a big farm for one lone farmer and Annie has through a stroke of luck or genious or both found two young farmers recently graduated from UC Berkeley to intern for a year.

They come sauntering up to the greenhouse weapons of mass destruction in hand (pitchfork and shovel) and greet us with big hugs. They are, with no condescension implied, adorable. Their worn-in overalls covered in dirt, layers of flannel soft with use, mud caked work boots, and generous smiles impress me.

 Suzie and Oliver are doing what they want to be doing: farming the land and making it grow. Inspired by the prospect of forming their own CSA they have been steadily preparing the farm for Spring. And they are bubbling with ideas, fresh with inspiration, and loving every minute of having a big ol’ farm to call their own and make of it what they want.

Suzie is a kindred spirit and earth mother. She likes to grow things. In the kitchen she has glass jars filled with different fermenting concoctions. Her latest fascination being homemade Kombucha. She grows fermented chains called ‘mothers’ and places them in various sweetened teas to create vinegary refreshing cold drinks.

And she bakes bread. God does she bake some mean bread. We’re talking whole wheat soft loaves stuffed with cheddar cheese & jalapenos and dill & garlic. Bread to break and sustain the heartiest appetites slathered with homemade butter.

To add to the fermented list is sauerkraut pickled with cranberry juice and carroway (a throw back to her Polish ancestry) and hard apple cider, a prisoner’s desperate and delightful deliverance. I eye the Happy Jack wondering if she’ll miss a gallon of it if it magically disappears.

In the vein of true Southern hospitality Annie and I hit the road to find alcohol. A little time alone with my Aunt is just fine by me and we throw the PT Cruiser into drive and speed down the Old Highway to the next county of Decator which promises some cheap whiskey, wine, and beer.

“Don’t get caught!” Oliver calls to us through the kitchen doorway laughing at two old women in need of drink. We buy our bottled sins and make a quick trip to a BBQ house to pick up a gallon of Brunswick stew and a coconut cream pie to take home.

“You can buy a gallon of stew here? I don’t know why, but that just sounds wrong.”

“Oh yeah, you can get a big ol’ gallon jar of it. Suzie loves the glass jars anyways. She makes her Kombucha in them.” Annie and I drive and drive and pull up the gravel driveway to her cozy farmhouse. We enter to the smell of fresh baked bread...

 

 

  and a wonderful cumin and blackeyed pea stew with wilted arugula from the garden and a little bacon grease for flavor. A tossed salad graces the table with lettuce picked only minutes before.

  “I’m not leaving.” I announce.

“Me neither.” Eric chimes in both of us in foodie heaven.

We put the Brunswick stew in the refrigerator for another day since Suzie and Oliver have cooked their hearts out in our absence. I pour red wine for the ladies and crack Budweisers for the men. Actually Annie and I are double fisting with wine and beer. Well, why not. Budweiser tastes more like flavored water anyways.

  We eat like Kings. Polish off the magnum of table wine and an 18 pack of Bud and hit the hay. I sleep deep on a featherbed with a little space heater desperately trying unsuccessfully to do her job.

In the morning Suzie and Oliver are at it again cooking up food so fresh and delicious I’d pay twice the amount of a fancy restaurant just for second helpings. She spoons a big dollop of her cranberry sauerkraut next to my farm fresh eggs and places some strong black coffee next to my seat. I scarf down.

  “I will buy your sauerkraut for my restaurant. Anything you can or jar I will buy. Just tell me what you want for it and we’ll work it out.”

“Really? That could be cool. I’ve never thought of selling any of it. I guess I’ll have to perfect the recipes.”

“Well you should think about it. And don’t worry about perfecting it – you’re already there. I’d hire you in my kitchen just so I could eat your bread everyday.”

After breakfast we hit the local flea market where my Aunt Annie runs the parking lot collecting 50 cents per car. There is everything to be found here. Animals, chickens, saddles, food, antique cast iron pots and pans, junk, and blue eggs.

  Oliver, Suzie, and a new addition to the intern team, Alex, find a shabby looking dog in a cage and debate with Annie over whether or not they should buy it for $20 and take pity on its sorry state. It’s a mixed breed: beagle and hound.

We talk the owner down to $8 and he swears tooth and nail through tobacco stained yellow teeth that the dog does not bark or chase chickens.  The dog is not a chicken killer. Annie gives him a once over through her crystal clear turquoise eyes suspecting that he’s fuller in shit than his crusty appearance is letting on.

We take the dog anyway against better judgment.

“We need a dog that will kill the groundhogs.” Suzie and Oliver justify their nurturing hearts. The other dog on the farm is a gentle rotwilder that prefers swamp swimming to hunting.

We get the dog back to the farm after I get shooed away from one woman’s stall for taking photographs of her $1 grab bag collection (why? Did she think I was going to copy her idea?!!). Our motley crew is feeling good after our dog rescue. It is a sweet dog.

  At the farm the dog is unleashed. It makes friends with Carla the rotwilder, a good sign, then it takes off after one of the chickens semi killing it by grabbing its feathery neck and thrashing the chicken back and forth. The other chickens squawk and we run over to the crime scene.

Annie is in shock and visibly upset. She pens up the dog who immediately begins barking its head off and yodeling for us in hound-dog fashion to unleash it. Oliver grabs an axe and lops off the chicken’s head to put it out of its misery.

  But now our crew is left with a chicken and no idea what to do with it. I’ve gutted and plucked numerous feathered creatures and skinned rabbits and baby boar, but none that are freshly dead. And I’ve heard it’s hard to get the feathers off of fresh kill.

After quickly researching the farmers put a big pot of water on to boil. Dunk the chicken by the feet into the pot and pull off the feathers. They come off easily. They singe the pinfeathers with a torch and debate on how to gut it.

  I explain that I like to go through the neck sticking my fingers up to the top of the breast bone and fingering the lungs loose then reaching back further and pulling out intestines and all in one clean swipe.

But a book on Country Living says to cut the chicken across the thighs to gut it. I’m wondering if this is the way to go with a freshly murdered chicken as opposed to one that has had time to firm up with rigamortis.

I’ve also cleaned chickens through the butt hole. I know that sounds bizarre. But in France we clean capons through the backend. You cut the anus a tiny bit larger and then pull all the innards out while everyone in the kitchen cracks jokes at your expense in French. Executive chefs included.

The reason for this innard enima is so the skin over the breasts is not torn. And the opening around the neck is kept smaller. It is very important that a whole cooked bird has beautiful crispy skin that is fully in tact.

Oliver, very much wanting to gut his first chicken, makes an expert incision with a buck knife from thigh to thigh reminding me of a field cesarean section. Warm gelantinous yellow fat spills forth but no intestines. The crew gathers around and debates the next step.  They are fearful of puncturing the gall sack and ruining the flesh of the bird. 

I’m afraid my gall sack warning has caused hesitation so I shove my hand in the bird and reach far back to the neck into the warm gushy innards and blood feeling around for the lungs to loosen and pull as much as I can out.

The blob does not come out in one neat grab probably because the bird is still warm. There are still odds and ends to rip out and Alex and Oliver take turns reaching in and fishing out the rest.

We wash the bird, crack open some beers to celebrate, and feel mightily redeemed that we have turned a wrongfully murdered chicken into something useful like dinner.

 

  Eric and I leave the farm and hit the road aiming the truck towards Oklahoma City by way of Tennessee and Mississippi. Suzie packs us lunch and hands me a large jar with Kombucha mothers so I can make my own when I get back home. I squeeze Annie promising to come back in the Spring. 

  Goodbye Sweet home Alabama, hello Oklahoma O.K.

Fried Bologna is Back: From New York to North Carolina

It's Saturday and Nico a friend from work who has been given a full weekend away from the hot line, comes to help me pack up my NYC apartment.

No small feat considering I have just spent the previous day puking my guts up for hours on end and have no real desire to carry heavy boxes and furniture. Just my luck, my last weekend in New York City and I am food poisoned. Either from the cheap BBQ wings I had feasted two nights before or the Chipotle burrito the day after which only digested for roughly one hour before emerging looking surprisingly un-chewed in my toilet bowl.

I’m sure there are worse things to regurgitate, but I can’t think of many that top black beans, hot sauce, and marinated chicken.

Nonetheless, Nico the “French Terminator” as we have lovingly dubbed him at work for his make-it-happen work ethic and funny sounding French Alsatian accent, get to work wrapping everything we can in shrink wrap and loading up the truck. Nico is a master packer. Not suprising because he is a very efficient and organized cook.

The decision to drive my apartment across country was out of necessity although the romantic idea of driving through America’s backbone easily turned my grim reality into an exciting adventure.  When will I have an excuse to make this kind of trip again? No doubt my new home at Le Club restaurant in San Franciso will keep me fully engaged for years to come.

Road trip. God it’s been ages since I went on a road trip.

I rent a Budget truck after many blog readers advise me against using U-Haul trucks to drive across country. (And I must add a quick ‘thank you’ to the reader who provided the low down on rental insurance). Before Nico arrives on Saturday afternoon, I go to the rental place, take a look at the 10’ truck I’ve rented, shove open the roll gate cargo door to check out the space that will house my apartment, and realize it is much to small. Much, much too small.

I go back to the office and sweet talk the manager into giving me the 17’ truck for the same price. Things are looking good so far even though my stomach is still not sure if it wants to be cooperative on this journey.

Climbing into the cushiony driver’s side I adjust the seat, my side mirror and reach for the rearview mirror when I realize there isn’t one. Shit. I’ve never driven a truck before. I roll down the window on the passenger side and adjust the other side view mirror.

Keys in ignition, radio blaring Lady Gaga’s overplayed hit ‘Bad Romance’ I peel out of the Budget truck parking lot onto the Westside Highway and commence in making my way South to the financial district, my home.

This is fun! I am so much taller than I’ve been before riding higher than the cars all around me. I can’t believe I’m doing this, I think out loud laughing for nobody to hear but Lady Gaga.

I make a left off of the Westside Freeway and head over to 7^th street and now I’m a little nervous. The streets are narrower and I have too much stimulous to take in trying to negotiate stoplights, parked cars on my right and traffic passing me on my left.

And then the worst happens. As I’m looking out my side view mirror I hear a deafening smack. I automatically look into my nonexistent rear view mirror and then to the passenger side mirror which is no longer outstretched but firmly folded into the window.

I have just taken off some parked car’s side mirror. Shit, shit, shit. Do I turn back? Do I keep driving? Oh my God, I can’t believe this.

I pull over, shaking, get out of the truck and adjust my mirror then slowly walk down the street to see what kind of damage I’ve caused. And there it is, a car with a demolished side mirror. Some guys standing outside work on a smoke break are laughing their asses off. I smile sheepishly.  

I’m waiting for some one to come running out and start screaming at me, but no one does. I leave a note, nervously take another quick glance around, and get the hell out of there.

This time I keep the radio off and drive slower down the street until I make it to my enormous apartment building. And now the real fun begins: parking a 17’ truck in New York City. 

There is no parking in the financial district. My building, a block away from the Stock Exchange is a heavy security area with guards up and down the block and meter maids that fly out of nowhere giving double and triple tickets to illegally parked cars.

I drive around the block once, twice, three times, four times. I need to park oustside the building but it is a ‘no standing’ zone and the moving trucks that have dared to risk the vengence of Rita the Metermaid all have little yellow slips underneath their windshield wipers. I pull up outside the entrance to my building and leave the truck running.

There is a black Surburban in the ‘no parking zone’ (not to be confused with the ‘no standing zone) on the other side of the street. A famous name is plastered in the window and I ask the driver if he is going to leave soon. He is. 

Since it is Saturday I can park in the ‘no parking’ zone but not in the ‘no standing’ zone. Go figure. I wait and wait and finally the world famous passenger leaves the apartment building. He waves to me, I wave back wishing my camera more accessible and then attempt to negotiate parallel parking the beast without any more casualties.

In my apartment I look at the twenty boxes I’ve managed to pack over the last few days in between sudden and swift naseau attacks and flop on the sofa waiting for NIco. The rest we will do together. And I’m sort of at the giving up point. Maybe I should have just paid the extra $1000 for some one to make my crap disappear.

Nico arrives with enough energy for the both of us. We pack, we talk shop, and I attempt to convince him unsuccessfully to leave New York and join me in my new adventure. I can tell he’s thinking about it. I have already secretely attempted to win over his wife, who has trained in France and who holds a Master’s  Degree in hospitality and management. A dynamic duo in my small restaurant would be awesome.

Nico and I are around the same age and both ready to have creative input. The idea of burning yourself out for yourself is always more alluring than being a burnt out cog. We brainstorm recipes while loading up and he promises to at least make a trip to San Francisco with his wife. I repay him with cold beer and hot pizza and he leaves to enjoy a layman’s holiday with a promise to return on Sunday and finish the job.

Thank God for Nico. I could never have packed up without him.

Eric, a chef friend from San Francisco and my newest and only other team member thus far, flies out to help me make the drive across country.  This is team spirit. I trade him a free one way ticket to New York and promise a quick and fun tour of the city’s attractions before heading out. He’s never been to New York before and hasn’t taken a vacation in over 7 years.

I can’t imagine how driving 8 hours a day would be considered a vacation. But Eric tells me he loves to drive. And he’s excited to make the cross country trek. Growing up in logger country, and working for the family business as a kid, he has driven just about every truck known to mankind and driving long distance is no big deal.

There is a God after all. How I ended up with a talented chef who also happens to like driving trucks long distance is beyond me and I think qualifies as a bonefide miracle.

Now Eric is funny. He shows up to my apartment in shorts. It’s still Winter in New York. “Don’t worry, I have a pair of pants.” This is so Californian. The rest of the East Coast is bundling up in layers and face masks and scarves and mittens. And Eric is still surfing the West Coast. He’s of Nordic descent, Viking no doubt, and apparently cold weather or ‘weather’ as we call it on the East coast does not affect him.

“Is there anything you really want to eat in New York?” I ask before dragging him around the freezing city?

“Not really, I just want to see what I can, and maybe eat at one of David Chang’s restaurants. Good pizza would be awesome.”

Not a problem.

Times Square. Check.

Central Park. Check.

Kespe Pizza in the West Village. Check.

Pool and jazz at Black Cat. Check

Cocktails at Daddy-O’s. Check.

Pork Buns at Momofuko’s ssam bar. Check.

Cocktails at DPT. Check.

Leo’s Bagels. Check.

The morning of the our first travel day things go wrong. I am forced to park the truck in the ‘no standing’ zone outside my apartment building in order to load in the last of my stuff. Rita gives me a $95 parking ticket but promises not to double or triple ticket me out of something resembling pity. I’m not sure that metermaids have pity, but she is cutting me some slack anyway.

We’re ready to roll and I go to wash my hands in my kitchen sink and the faucet comes straight out of the socket spewing water everywhere.

“Are you kidding me?!?!?!?!”

I get it fixed delaying our trip to Williamsburg, Virginia by hours and say goodbye to the concierge staff who have taken very good care of me over the last two years. And then it hits. I’m leaving for good. I give Oliver, the doorman and my constant protector, a big bear hug and tears start flowing.

Oliver looks over to Eric and says, “Take care of my girl. Or I’ll find out where you live, if you know what I mean.”

Eric laughs and promises to do his best. Oliver is smiling, but I know he’s not kidding either. Oliver has helped me to my apartment in some interesting conditions. He has been a good friend and easy listener. If there’s anything I need he’s there to help and not just because its his job.

“Don’t say goodbye Amy. Just say ‘I’ll see you later’. Come back and open a restaurant here. I’ll get the investors…”

I wipe my tears and muster a half smile and a ‘see you later’.  Eric and I hop into the truck. Me in the passenger seat with a plethora of GPS devices and out of date maps and we begin the adventure navigating New York City streets to the New Jersey turnpike before the incoming snow storm hits.

We cross into New York and the Statue of Liberty is holding her flame high. “Eric, look, there she is! Now you can say you’ve seen that too.”

He responds with a simple, “Statue of Liberty. Check.”

The route we have come up with is not the real Backbone of America that bisects the country in two but a Southern route, I-40, that starts with a slight detour into Williamsburg, Virginia where my older sister lives. I’ve lived two years in New York and never once made the visit and there is no way in hell I’m going back to California without seeing her.

We had hoped to get there by early evening, but our trip is now more than four hours behind and we pull up to her house late in the evening. Nonetheless my sister and sister-in-law have a steaming bowl of beouf bourguingnon ready for us and some nice cold beers. We catch up filing in the blanks over the last few years and then I fall asleep with her three dogs snuggling up around me like a re-found pack member. That was some good sleep.

Day two of the adventure we head to Knoxville, Tennessee where a fellow blogger and chef, Kevin Weeks of Seriously Good, promises us some sofa to sleep on and a hot meal. It’s a good deal: we bring the wine, he makes the dinner and gives us a place to stay.

But we get lost and end up in North Carolina around 6PM. We somehow manage to miss the I-40 connection from I-85 and continue on it until we are far South of Knoxville.

I call Kevin, who I am very excited to meet, and say “I know you don’t really know me yet, but I think you’re going to very much dislike me. We somehow ended up right outside of Charlotte in North Carolina and we don’t really know how long it will take us to get to Knoxville, Tennessee from here.”

“Oh you poor thing!” He says with a reassuring voice “I’ve missed that connetion before too.”

“Really?” I ask feeling not so inept as a navigator. “You have really missed that connection before? How long do you think it will take us to get to Knoxville? My now-working GPS says four and half hours.”

“Oh, no way. There’s a rockslide that you will have to detour so plan on 7 hours.”

“Oh my God. Okay, I guess we better find some place to stay here and then head up tomorrow.”

Kevin wishes me well and reassures that the dinner he has prepared for us is no big deal. But I know he’s not telling the whole truth. I know he has something special up his sleeve. He’s a chef after all and a good one. However, he lets me off the hook without even a slight guilt trip. I’m bummed. I was looking forward to meeting a fellow food blogger. And I think he is too.

Parked outside a diner called Bicuitville Eric gets on his cell phone and me on mine as we call friends and family trying to see if anyone knows anyone in Charlotte, North Carolina.

I’m coming up empty handed but Eric is making headway. He knows a cook who knows a cook who just moved back to North Carolina from California. It’s a long shot. We don’t even know if they live close to Charlotte or if they will have us.

Within fifteen minutes we are heading over to a suburb of Charlotte, the Biscuitville truck stop growing smaller in the rearview mirror and the promise of a biscuit and fried bologna sandwich. “Fried Bologna is Back” the posters around the diner boast.

Really? It’s back? Where did it go?

We arrive to our new host's house and are greeted with ice cold Budweisers, hospitality, and a hot plate of pinto beans, fresh cast iron skillet cornbread, and sautéed cabbage. It is a great meal. Homey and nourishing.  

 We polish off six pack after six pack swapping hilarious cooking horror stories comparing burns and scars. My cheeks hurt from laughing. Our host is funny, and I can only imagine what cooking on the line with him is like, no doubt a good time.

In the morning we re-route. Our next stop was supposed to be Oklahoma City after Knoxville but this will mean a 20 hour drive. Without internet connection we feel lost, so I call my Mom, our new On-Star navigation system, and she quickly comes up with a new plan.

"Listen, you are going to have to add another day to the trip. That's all there is to it. Enjoy yourselves and don't risk the long drive. From Charlotte you will drive through Alabama and then up to Oklahoma City. That's the quickest way to get to I-40."

"Alabama?"

"You know what. Your Aunt Annie has a farm in Alabama. She would love to see you."

"Yeah, but is it on the way?"

I can hear my mother clicking away on her key pad inserting new information into our trip.

"Actually her farm is right on your way. You will have to go through Birmingham anyway and she's just 50 miles North from there. She would love to see you, you know."

I have only heard rumors of my Aunt's certified organic farm. And although we talk on the phone and keep in touch via email I have never visited. 

We fortify ourselves with biscuits and gravy at Bojangles and hit the pavement.

 Alabama here we come!