White Jacket Required (10 page)

Despite my hard work, I was worried about the final, mainly because my heart just wasn't in cutting up animals. I liked to eat meat, but butchery wasn't for me. At home, I preferred to cook simple meals like pasta or vegetables, foods that didn't have eyes and feelings. On the wall in the classroom kitchen, a huge framed poster of the different parts of the pig stared back at me, and I couldn't help but wonder what animals really thought as they were led into the slaughterhouse.

I knew that because I wasn't giving it my all, my grades were suffering. The next day, Chef Sharmin called me into his office. While I sat there shivering in my long underwear under my whites, he told me that I wasn't “putting maximum effort into the class” and that I needed to start “acting more like a real chef and less like a little girl.” I felt tears start to sting my eyes and bit my bottom lip hard. As Chef added that my grade in this class depended on the final practical exam, I stared at my cuticles.

“You got it, Miss Weber? Go home tonight and practice. I want one hundred percent tomorrow morning, or else.”

“Thanks, Chef. I got it. I really have been practicing at home, though, I swear. It just doesn't come easy to me, that's all.” I thought back about deboning a chicken last night at midnight. And for what? Apparently Chef still thought I didn't deserve to be here in the first place.

The next morning, I was feeling surprisingly well rested and ready to roll. We were to start with the chicken, then move on to the fish. “Knives out . . . and GO!” yelled Chef Zoey. The chatter in the room vanished, and now all you could hear was the slicing of raw meat, tendons, and gristle. I mentally told myself to slow down and concentrate, trying to envision my diagram with all the correct knife cuts.

I made my first slice right underneath the gelatinous layer of cold skin on the top of the bird, so that I could slowly peel it away and get to work on the meat. Then, I cut deep down the center, along the top of the breastbone. I used my freshly sharpened paring knife to cut two even slits on the side of each breast, then ran my knife once again underneath each to totally remove them from the body. Feeling better that the initial slices were done, I laid both breasts, smooth side up, on the platter that I would later present to the chefs. I tried to imagine that I was back in my kitchen at home and that this wasn't for a grade but only for a dinner that would taste amazing. I then slit the connections between the legs and the wings, feeling a little resistance under my knife. After I heard the familiar snap of the tendon that connected the wings, I was able to separate wing from thigh and use the edge of my knife to saw away all the wing meat. Finally, I sliced off both thighs and pulled out the wishbone. I was done with part one.

My knife was covered with bits of chicken fat and meat. I wiped it clean with my towel, then dipped it quickly into the bowl of sanitizer on the table while I looked around to see Carlo and Josh's progress. They both had finished their chickens and started on the fish, which was definitely the harder of the two animals to break down completely. I glanced around at the rest of the class and noticed that one guy, an old cook from a navy ship with a don't-mess-with-me attitude, had finished both pieces completely and now raced outside for a cigarette break. I went to the walk-in fridge and picked one of the few remaining fish. It had a bulging eye that stared at me from the bottom of the cooler. Back at my station, I held my breath and cut off the head aggressively, suddenly hating this fish and this class and wondering what in the world I was actually doing here. Midway through removing the miniscule pin bones that ran down the center of each opaque fillet, I felt like something was going wrong. I had managed to slice out both fillets, but in attempting to rid them of all bones, I'd mangled them pretty badly. I had a smear of fish guts on my starched white apron and scales wedged underneath my fingernails.

When it was finally my turn in line to present what I had done, I showed off my chicken first. I was pretty proud of it, although I certainly wasn't to the point of considering a career in animal butchery any time soon.

“Nice work on the chicken, Weber, but what in the world happened to the fish?” Chef Sharmin sniffed and looked me straight in the eyes.

“Yeah, I'm not sure what happened there. Maybe my knife wasn't sharp enough . . . ” I trailed off because I knew there was nothing I could say to remedy the situation, and if I kept talking I would probably only make things worse. Chef shook his head and scribbled some numbers down in his grade book, then waved his hand to tell me he was through with me.

“Thank you, Chef,” I said and then washed my hands, hung up my apron, and stepped out of the kitchen to take a breather before the traditional “post-practical deep clean” began.

For the rest of the day, I kept finding the occasional fish scale stuck to my shoe or forearm. In the end, I managed to scrape by with a B- in the class. If I had perfected the fish the grade probably would have been higher, but I took what I could get.

Croque Monsieur

Serves 2

I like my
croque monsieurs sans
traditional béchamel sauce. For me, the sauce distracts from the delicious simplicity of the sandwich. Instead, I love to slather mine with Dijon mustard. Another fabulous variation is the
croque madame
, which is simply a
croque monsieur
with a fried egg on top.

4 slices white sandwich bread (preferably a day old), crusts removed

Dijon mustard

8 ounces freshly grated Gruyère cheese

2 ounces country-style ham or Virginia ham, sliced moderately thin

Preheat oven to 400°F.

Toast bread slices lightly in the oven. Lightly brush one side of each slice with mustard, then add cheese to two slices and add ham to the remaining two. Sandwich the ham and cheese parts together and bake until cheese melts, about 5 minutes.

Lemon–Brown Sugar Chicken

Serves 4

I just love this simple chicken dish—the perfect combination of sweet and sour! Serve it with roasted Brussels sprouts and a baked sweet potato for a complete meal.

1 pound boneless, skinless chicken breast

1 cup lemon juice

1 cup flour

1 teaspoon salt

1 teaspoon paprika

Dash of freshly ground black pepper

2 tablespoons canola oil

2 tablespoons chicken stock (recipe follows)

2 tablespoons brown sugar

1 tablespoon grated lemon zest

Combine chicken and lemon juice in a bowl and marinate in refrigerator for at least 30 minutes and up to 8 hours.

Drain the chicken and set aside. Fill a plastic bag with flour, salt, paprika, and pepper. Shake well. Add the chicken and shake to coat completely.

Heat canola oil in a large skillet (preferably cast iron) until hot but not smoking. Add the chicken and cook about 6 minutes on each side, until browned. Remove chicken from pan and deglaze with stock. Return chicken to pan.

Sprinkle the brown sugar and lemon zest over chicken and transfer to oven to finish baking, about 30 minutes.

Spicy Chicken Tortilla Soup

Serves 6

Serve this with lots of shredded Monterey Jack cheese, sliced jalapeños, and cornbread on the side for the perfect belly-warming meal that heals just about anything.

1½ pounds boneless skinless chicken breasts

1 poblano pepper

2 tablespoons olive oil

1 large red onion, diced

1 jalapeño pepper, diced (include seeds, if desired)

2 cloves garlic, minced

2 teaspoons chili powder

2 teaspoons cumin

8 cups homemade chicken stock (or canned chicken broth)

1 (14-ounce) can fire-roasted diced tomatoes (or Ro-tel tomatoes and chiles)

1 cup hominy

2 (15-ounce) cans black beans, drained and rinsed

1 (4-ounce) can diced green chiles

2 teaspoons salt

4 corn tortillas, cut into strips

Juice of 2 limes

Shredded Monterey Jack cheese for serving

Chopped cilantro for serving

Bring a large pot of water to a boil. Add the chicken breasts and simmer for about 20 minutes, or until cooked through. Drain chicken and set aside to cool. Once cool, chop into 1-inch cubes.

While the chicken is cooking, roast the poblano pepper over a burner on a gas stove or under the broiler until it is very charred (almost black). Set aside on a plate to cool, then dice.

Heat the olive oil in a very large pot over medium-high heat until hot but not smoking, then add the onion and jalapeño and cook, stirring occasionally, until soft, about 5 minutes. Add the garlic and diced poblano and cook for another minute. Add the chili powder and cumin and stir until well combined.

Stir in the chicken stock, diced tomatoes, hominy, black beans, green chiles, diced cooked chicken, and salt and bring to a boil. Add the tortilla strips and lime juice and cook until the tortillas soften.

Serve with the shredded cheese and chopped cilantro on the side.

Homemade Chicken Stock

Makes about 2 quarts

Everyone should have a homemade chicken stock recipe; it really does make a big difference in the flavor of any dish. You can freeze this in small portions for quick and easy defrosting.

1 large chicken, about 5 pounds

1 yellow onion, unpeeled and cut in half

2 large carrots, ends trimmed and cut in half

2 large stalks celery, ends removed, cut in half

1 bay leaf

Cold fresh water

Put chicken in a large stockpot with remaining ingredients. Add cold water to cover. Put pot over high heat and bring to a boil, then reduce heat to a simmer, partially cover, and simmer for two hours. Skim any scum that rises to the top.

After two hours, remove the chicken from the pot and remove the veggies. Then, bring the stock back up to a boil and cook until it has reduced by half. This should take another hour or two.

Cool the stock, then strain through a fine-mesh strainer into a clean stockpot. If desired, freeze individual portions of stock in sandwich-sized plastic bags, then defrost as needed.

9
HOME FOR THE HOLIDAYS

I
HEADED HOME FOR THE HOLIDAYS AFTER MEAT FABRICATION
class, exhausted both mentally and physically. Helen was going home as well, and despite our very different career choices, we both felt the exact same way. The other night over sushi she had finally confided in me that she felt she might have made a mistake in joining the police force.

“It's not really what I thought,” she had said, as she picked at some lightly salted edamame. We had gone out to dinner to celebrate the end of my first semester and the impending Christmas break. “It's not that I don't think I can do it, but I'm just not all that happy. I keep thinking it will get better, but it's getting worse.”

Orlando had a tough crime scene, and Helen looked as if she hadn't slept in weeks. I wasn't sure she had.

As we prepared to go our separate ways for the holiday break, we hugged and promised to stay in touch over the next few weeks. Then she jumped in her SUV and turned toward the interstate. I only had an hour and a half drive home but was looking forward to it. I needed to clear my head a little bit. Though I hadn't told anybody yet, I was also beginning to second-guess my decision to go back to school. I hadn't made many friends and constantly felt alienated because I was the only person there who didn't aspire to be a chef. Now, three months in, I was worried that I had made the wrong decision.

It didn't help matters that people were constantly asking me why I would go to culinary school in the first place if I didn't want to be a restaurant chef. I patiently explained again and again that the art of writing about food required actually
knowing
food. If I didn't really know the subject I was writing about, how could I ever be taken seriously? I had read many writers who could give beautiful, mouthwatering descriptions of food, but their eloquent prose seemed to lack a deeper knowledge. I wanted to be the writer who
really
knew what she was talking about, who understood
why
a given dish worked or didn't work. But I was starting to doubt myself. Was culinary school really the way to achieve my goals?

As I turned the corner onto my parents' street, my anxious thoughts melted away, and I felt relief wash over me.

“Jen's back!” my brother shouted as I opened the door.

“Hey, John, what's goin' on?” I said. My little brother wasn't so little anymore, and he towered over me. I noticed the faint shadow above his lip and the way his arms seemed to fill out his white short-sleeve shirt. He was five years my junior, and through our whole lives we had maintained a very standard “little brother–big sister” relationship. We fought. We yelled. We bickered. But at the end of the day, he was my little brother and I loved him.

“Nothin,'” he said, and threw open the fridge to grab a Coke.

My parents came down the stairs and hugged me. “Welcome home, sweetie,” my mom said.

“We were hoping you could debone our chicken for dinner tonight,” Dad said, winking.

“Ha, ha. Very funny. I think I'm ready to take a little break from animals.” I set my suitcase near the stairs and followed everyone into the kitchen. “How's school going, John?” I asked.

“Fine. Boring.” A typical seventeen-year-old's answer. “Hey, Mom? Can I go to David's house now?” he asked.

Mom sighed. “We would love to have you stay for dinner, John, but if you really want to go, you can go.”

“Great. See ya, Jen!” John shouted as he slammed the front door behind him.