Carrot Top

Yeah, okay. Maybe Dave the One-Eyed Butcher can whip up something. I'll tell him to start looking through his recipes.

This sounds like it will really be fun to see. Reminds me of an old New Yorker cartoon - a fat tabby cat has brought in a large mouse to the living room where his mistress stands, looking down at the dead mouse in distress. The cat looks up at her and says "Make rattatouille." A classic.

Reading this made me sigh deeply, Velma. Ah, I'd love to be even a little mouse in those shops!

.................................................. Jorge slammed his Chinese cleaver through the bloody saddle of venison that lay on the butcher block before him with a vengenance. "There's something wrong with that chick!" he said loudly to anyone that wanted to listen. "I won't work here if she comes back!" "Something right about that girl, too, if you wanna look at it that way." Wesley the dishwasher walked past Jorge and Randy with a rack of clean pots and pans, giving each of them a leering wink and a sweet wiggle of his behind as he passed. "Man, let me make the soup today." Jorge looked over at Randy. "There's something I gotta do." "Sucking up to the boss, dude?" Randy laughed. "Yeah, okay, go for it. Just put down that cleaver - you look like you might do a ninja move and go postal any second now. But then again, you never liked Paulette because she took Lori's job when she left to get hitched. You thought Lori ruled the earth, the sun, and the moon." "Nee", (everyone called Chef Nerak "Nee" for she preferred it that way. The term "Chef" was never invoked unless it was in one of those rare moments when her temper had risen over something done wrong. In those moments, they had learned that to say "Chef" would make her blink her eyes in surprise then gather together her dignity and temper in the same moment.) "Nee is going to love me." Jorge said, his dark eyebrows pulling together in concentration. "You'll see. She'll love me after this soup." Jorge's Soup ....................................... 2 heads Boston lettuce 1 lb ground veal 4 Tbs. finely chopped onion 1 clove garlic, minced 1/4 tsp. nutmeg 1 lightly beaten egg Salt and Pepper to taste 1 Qt. stock, preferably veal and chicken 1/4 C parsley, minced 1/2 C parmesan, shaved Wash and separate lettuces into leaves. Blend together veal, onion, garlic, nutmeg, egg, salt and pepper. Shape into 1" balls and roll lettuce leaves around to make small packets. Simmer very gently in stock for ten minutes. Serve in shallow bowls sprinkled with chopped parsley and shaved parmesan cheese. Add a whole egg to poach in the broth before serving, if you wish. Jorge did. "I put magic in this soup." Jorge lifted a spoonful to his lips to taste his finished product. "Yeah, sure, dude. Just as long as you didn't put anything else wierd in it!" Randy hooted. A noise was heard behind them, and Nee appeared.

I might get hungry if I had a kid named "Pudding". My old-fashioned romantic soul sees Basil Rathbone when I hear the name. Sybil could never ruin that for me.

That is a sexy food word. Very. Aaargh! This is better than eating, reading these words. A terrible plight to be in.

Makes me want to dance.

Excellent choices. Much more practical and long-lasting than those names of yesteryear that people used to dub their offspring with. Faith, Hope, Charity. These names at least are edible, and easier to live up to possibly.

I can picture "Madame Skordalia" in my mind right now, since you've said the word. . .

Lovely. Absolutely. That's hard to top. It would be a nice name for a girl too, don't you think?

A brisk cold wind and an over-strong scent of perfume blew in the door of the Glorious shop, along with Paulette, glowing in the morning's bright sunshine. Randy was prepping vegetables side-by-side with Jorge. Their eyes, as everyone's eyes did when Paulette appeared, went first to her shoes. The red open-toed sparkly four inch heels certainly commanded attention, sticking out from under her tight jeans. Then their eyes went up to her hair, which was an intended red as it flew out sideways in happy spiral curls in a style immortalized in Zap comic-books - but the black roots when she pulled off her purple Russian-style fur cap shaded a different truth of the matter. Finally, the eyes rested on her chest displayed in a low-cut polyester blouse that peeped out from the open puffy winter jacket. Paulette didn't notice their eyes, she was used to it. She smiled, and her big blue eyes full of canny innocence implored everyone else smile whether they wanted to or not. Randy only smiled briefly, and Jorge frowned. "Paulette, what are you doing here?" Randy asked. "I thought you got another job after you got fired." Paulette continued to sweep into the room, carrying a white enamel dish which she placed carefully down on the counter near the oven. "Randy, darlin'!" she drawled, "I'm not staying long. Just pop this into the oven for me, will you? And when Chef Nerak gets in, pull it out and give it to her to eat. Tell her it's a peace offering." Randy sighed. "Won't do you any good, Paulette. You're trouble. She won't hire you back." Paulette smiled her glowing smile with her shiny red lipstick intact. "You'll see, honey." She turned and whooshed back out the door, leaving the eyes to glance at what the eyes always glanced at on Paulette - that bottom that seemed to be permanently ensconsced in the jeans so tight. "Hasta nunca!" Jorge muttered. "Wonder what that pudding thing is. . " Randy slowly intoned. La Chomeur Paulette .......................................... Preheat oven to 350 F. Blend together 2 C firmly packed light brown sugar and 1 C milk, then add 3 Tbs. cold butter in tiny bits, all in a 1 Qt. ceramic baking dish. In a separate bowl mix 1 lightly beaten egg with 1/2 C milk, 3 Tbs. sugar, and 2 T melted butter. Sift 1 C flour with 1 tsp. baking powder onto this egg mixture and beat well. Stir in 1 tsp. vanilla. Pour over mixture in ceramic baking dish gently, spread carefully level. Bake 45 minutes or till top is puffed and golden. Portion out, serve warm with sauce from the bottom of the dish spooned over top, along with a pouring of heavy cream. "I wonder if Chef Nerak will like it. Maybe she'll hire Paulette back." Jorge sighed as he lifted the pudding into the oven. "Chef can be kind of flaky sometimes."

Darkness has now fallen in the city of the Glorious Food to Go shop. The time had long past since the store had been closed and shuttered to passers-by. It had been a usual day but Dave's nephew Randy had remained late at the shop, alone in the kitchen under a single panel of flourescent light, preparing a dish he'd been thinking of all day. The pan clattered too-loudly against the stainless steel table as he pulled it off the fire and tore the end off a loaf of bread to eat it with, to sop up all the last little bits. He loved this dish. Somehow, it reminded him of Uncle Dave. Calves Liver in Mustard Sauce ............................................... 1 lb. calf's liver, cut into 1/4" slices Flour, seasoned with salt and pepper 1/4 C clarifed butter 1/4 C dry white wine 1/4 C brown stock 1/3 C minced shallot 1 tomato (peeled, seeded, minced) 1/4 tsp. dry tarragon leaf 1/3 C heavy cream 5 tsp. Dijon mustard Dredge liver in flour then saute in butter quickly. Remove liver to side plate while keeping warm during the deglazing of the pan with wine, stock, shallot, tomato, tarragon. Add cream, boil till thick and reduced. Stir in mustard - pour sauce over liver. Devour. Randy thought fondly of Uncle Dave as he quickly ate, finishing the plate by wiping the last drops of hot sauce from it with his fingers. Nobody, no, nobody, would ever say that again about his uncles liver after they tasted *this* recipe. Even pickled liver would taste good with this sauce.

I am required by law to keep a box of Pepperoni Bagel Bites in the freezer at all times. The penalties for breaking this law are heavy and invoke much guilt. The law is my fourteen-year old daughters. It is a law that keeps the peace.

The sun has just barely risen as the young man walks up the quiet street. He is ready to go to work, for just around the corner and with a short walk is Rachel's shop. . .already he's had a wonderful huge cup of mocha and several excellent things to warm his tummy and set his spirit right. It just so happens that this young fellow is a relative of the infamous Dave the One-Eyed Butcher. He holds several of the family traits, so his mind is now filling, as he walks, with tales of virtuosity touched with valor (and just-so-barely-shaded with virtue), that he can tell as soon as some others arrive at the shop. The quiet cool dark room is not the same for long when he arrives. Soon the large brick wood-fired oven starts to shine its glow, the popping of the wood judiciously reminding him that soon it will be time to place the goat that has been marinating in olive oil, orange juice, garlic oregano and savory things, onto the spit, as he does each morning. It will cook, turning, through the early hours, sending out an aroma that calls anyone from the street into the shop, mouths watering with anticipation. There will be sweet potatoes stuffed with collards and bacon. A lovely warm pot of Welsh Rabbit with the merest touch of cherry heering added at the end, with fat sourdough toast "soldiers" to dip or cover at will. Cippoline agrodolce, gleaming and cute, rather look as if they were winking at you. That starts the day, but for some wild mushrooms sauteed then doused with a short bit of cream.

Wooooo-eee, Rachel! I think I just got religion. ................................................................. My fourteen year old daughter just looked over at me and is laughing. She says I look like a really happy cat that just got some cream. I need to read this, over and over and over again. Thank you.

Is he edible? (No, you don't have to answer that. ) .................................................................................... Can't believe it's snowing there. I'll have to think of something warming to make in this shop for your weather. Tomorrow morning. KRB (always happy to have you expand the theme, SB )

I love your contribution, Ellen. Yum. As far as writing goes, I highly recommend it as an activity to take up. It has one great advantage over all other ways to waste time: I've never needed to buy new clothes to do it in (unlike every single other thing in life I can think of).

Lately, as I wander through the streets of my middle-sized medium-sophisticate level town, I feel a growing impatience. We have no "gourmet" shops, but for the sections of the "finer" grocery stores (who, it seems to me, sell the same things they sold in the 1970's but with a bit of cilantro snipped on top or chipotle tossed in or peanut sauce stirred into the recipes). My mind switches to images of streets in Florence, with wide open windows drawing one to look inside the high-ceilinged dimmed rooms where shelves and trays of lovely warm, alive, tasty foods sit waiting to be bitten into. Then it runs to Paris. The sidewalk is closer and more narrow. The window of the shop gleams with a sharp engaging pull like the toss of the head from a smiling shiny-haired woman, or like an engaging grin from a man walking a friendly floppy dog. Bright and crowded inside, the foods neater, more precise, lined up from the top of the window to the bottom with but a tiny angle of vision allowed into the rest of the shop. Vienna follows, always with the smell of good coffee everywhere, with undertones of burnt sugar and newspapers. I want these shops, here. And of course they are not here. Not in this middle-sized, medium-sophisticate town. When a "gourmet shop" is to be found (they do open, only to die a slow sad death within about nine months here), the offerings seem to be cloned from whatever they are offering in the supermarket, and my boredom with the same-ness of it all rises, along with my ire. Today, I am going to start a shop in my mind. Perhaps later I'll make some of things, and pretend that I had the good luck to have someone else cook them for me. My shop will be of the Florence-style. Large windows, things a bit sprawly. Warm, perfection underlying the imperfection theatrically displayed. I would have huge artichokes, stuffed, toppling over sideways. A gratin of zucchini and tomatoes in a heavily herbed bechamel, no cheese on top. A potato casserole with cream interspersed with diced hot peppers sending heat through the whole. A lemon-veal loaf, soft and light, with spicy mustard, cornichons, and sweet chutney triangulating it on the platter. What dishes would you serve in the shop of this style that you might imagine as perfect for yourself? What are you hungry for? I will read it and weep.

There was a young lad from Peru Who adored home-made guinea pig stew So he worked in a pet store Where he always could get more And enjoyed every last little chew.

Hmmm. A genius and a mystic. Guess it's a chancy toss-up which one of those two would be more of a gourmand. I have a black cat named Pavlova at the moment. She has six toes and a charming singing voice. Odd thing about this cat - she will not eat her supper alone. I have to keep her company while she dines. (Sounds like Rasputin does *not* have this problem .)

That's hilarious. Which one, the CIA one or the New Orleans one? Of course the thought of the prices seem rather abhorrent to me, and the idea of having to pay someone to teach my kid to cook, too, but pornographic? I don't THINK so. P.S. The CIA one can be accessed by linking directly to "Culinary Institute of America" then searching through the "Enthusiast" courses. Maybe it was the word "enthusiast" that set your company's system off.

Here's one from the CIA: Kids in the Kitchen. These run on Saturdays from 9 to 3 and the cost is $170. Mmm. I guess though that this (in terms of a "business venture") is just gravy to the CIA. A fun thing, a good thing, that can ride of the tails of reputation and give kids an idea of whether or not they might want to attend "for real" when they get a few years older. NIce gravy though. One might actually want to call it "sauce" instead".

I bet you'll love Chicago, Danielle. The Whole Foods classes are more like what I'm accustomed to seeing here and there. The price is about half of what the course above is charging per child (though still it likely would not be considered inexpensive by many people) and the kids attend "per session" with no committment to a semester, which is close to what a nine-week course really is. . . I do know that there are more kids interested in becoming professional chefs than ever before. Will this replace ballet classes and soccer for some I wonder?

I always love a story that tells of a man whose career (nascent or not) was started in a whorehouse. Add some good books in the tale, some good cooking, a pimpmobile, and what more could one want? Eh. Add a cat or two and I'll be blissed out.

In the middle of doing research on another topic entirely, I came across this site: Savvy After School Gourmet Cooking Classes for Kids. Two things startled me about it. The high-end aspect of it (I've seen children's cooking classes, but nothing quite this formal or at this price structure) and the fact that. . .this lovely thing is in *New Orleans*! (Which says something, though I'm not sure exactly what , about how re-building is progressing. . .) Are there any cooking classes for kids like this in your area? Do you think this would be a successful venture in your area? Why or why not? Just curious.