WHY DOESN'T EVERYONE HAVE THIS TIE???

I SIMPLY CAN'T LIE TO MYSELF ANYMORE

I am glad that soups are finally over. I have had my fair share of taste testing the shit out of them, and it made my pallate dried out and full of soupy residue. There's that word again: soupy. Has the -y addition at the end of every noun been injected unwillingly into my veins and I have to take medication to rid myself of this tumultuous journey to end of normalcy? Has my vocabulary been dumbed down to kitchen jargon? This isn't even kitchen jargon to me. If I were to say something was "soupy" or "stretchy" to a fellow co-worker at a real restaurant, she would probably cut my balls off with a paring knife and use them as garnish for a steamed fish dish. Let me tell ya though, if she were to chop them for garnish, she would have a whole lot of garnish. Volume and weight both apply to my true ballsiness, so accurate readings of measurement would be difficult. Large masses tend to do that.

I have entered the world of sauces now, the same basic principle of soup making but with a different name. The idea behind sauces is texture, making sure it holds body throughout the process and makes it to the guest without separating or running off the side of the plate. I compared the consistency to loogies, and if you don't know what a loogie is, just wait until you get sick ,hock up some of that mucus that's built up in your esophagus and let it torpedo out of your mouth with great vengeance and furious anger. The flight should be long, like flying from Milwaukee to the Philippines rather than Milwaukee to Minnesota. It should turn heads, each droplet left along the way giving innocent bystanders an uninvited light shower of mosit boogers and plasma textured snot. The landing should be monumental, similar to if Mount Rushmore were to play leapfrog in the Grand Canyon with the Statue of Liberty. The impact should create a tidal wave of bacteria, killing any insect or bug that happened to be on the landing strip at the time of touchdown. Your mood will be improved, a sense of accomplishment and pride overwhelming your body and vigorously increasing the amount of loogies produced per minute to allow relaunching as soon as possible. You see, loogies work on their own time, and if you decide to work with them, they will aid in your road back to health with constant amusement of potentially hocking a giant loogie onto someone's person or shoe. They are mainly for moral support, and don't actually serve any purpose but that. So, now you know what they are. Now leave me alone.

The loogie texture for sauces is comparable to the end stages of sickness, being a little runny and can coat the back of a spoon. I would make the sauce to recipe, and add or subtract liquid to make it right. The good thing about everything is that all the textures turn out to be about the same, well at least for the ones that we were working with. Add veloute sauce. sweat veggies. stir occansionally. Reduce. Reduce. Reduce. Repeat. BORING.

With more taste testing than soups, it is a runny situation of what's swimming around in my stomach. I try to solidify what's going around in the loogie pool party in my tum tum, eating whatever I can that has a solid texture to it. Bread, cheese, steel wool, and carrots is about all that is available. It could turn out to be a cannonball of mess later on, if you know what I'm saying. I, being the genius that I claim to be, dodge that imperviable diarrhea bullet and plan ahead. The chef always says, "Critical thinking. Just do it you idiots." Words of wisdom.

As soon as I was done with my first sauce, I asked the Chef to take a look at it. His eyes are always wandering, looking to see if there is someone inevitably fucking up somewhere in the corner and trying to dispose of the evidence before anyone sees. He makes it over to my station, breathing heavily from the 80th taste test he has done thus far. He has many more to go, so I can feel his pain. His motions were slow, easing into each taste test with a blank slate along with a poker stare. He must put himself in this state in order to not lose his sanity, a meditation practice of Chef professors everywhere in tasting obviously poor tasting materials from students with underdeveloped brains.

He tasted, looked up like cats do when you tell them to sit, tasted again, and nodded. There are never words muttered when the sauce is right on. They believe that words are wasted when something is good. Let's comment only when it is bad, so they know how horrible it is and that they have no self worth and any reason to live. This apporach I am all right with.

Later I heard the Chef making a comment to someone that the sauce should run off the spoon in a "drip drip" sort of manner. The brown sauce, coating the spoon, dripping off the spoon at a steady drip into another pool of brown sauce.

Watch that diarrhea, everyone. Watch it.

In every industry, there is a time when people talk about their jobs. It's inevitable, bragging and boasting about how much they know, who they know through corporate ladder climbing blow jobs, and what they have experienced in basement drug driven activities. It seems this will never end, a wormhole of unfortunate realizations that you're surrounded by pompous dickheads who won't shutup. Once you have come to this conclusion, just sit back and listen. Nod your head. Gag a little. Take notes. But focus on the one thing that matters in the world: Butter. 

I half-heartedly listen to all this ruckus when cooking, trying to focus on the task at hand. One of the more mind numbing tasks is making roux. It is a catalyst for thickening sauces, made up of butter and flour. The end result is a mushy substance of baby diarhea, smelling the opposite of poopy-ness. If you don't think butter smells incredible, then you have problems. It takes you into a world of aroma novelty, one of the first aromas one smells in a kitchen when someone starts to cook. It gets the body going with a charge of a horny 15 year old boy, raising body parts from the dead and stiffening at a firm stance. It is a social giant, complementing over 3/4 of recipes out there in the world and adding it's wonderful charisma to your dish. It can get you paid, laid, and a good grade. 

I melted the butter in the pan to start the roux, stirring ever so softly as it liquified into a pool of happiness. I thought about what it would be like to swim in a pool of butter, being able to have a basket of bread floating in the deep and dipping the bread into the pool for some mid-swim snacking. But don't eat too much bread while in the butter. You may develop a cramp and start to feel pains in your rib cage area. Like a gunshot to the dome, the pain will be ruthless. The butter will turn on you and become your enemy when it claimed to be your friend at first. You will hear faint laughter from your innards, a thriller sort of laugh that the butter may refer to as "The Filler Laugh." You will then ask, "What does that mean, butter? That doesn't make any sense."

The butter will reply, "It means I am filling you with myself....

...that wasn't too well thought out, was it?"

You will not agree with him, fearing that he may turn from sad realization to harsh reality. Stay quiet. Take notes. If you can. 

Once the butter was melted, I added the flour. It became a mess right away. It seemed to me like it was a supermodel, adding too much make-up and ruining what once was a beautiful thing. Appearance is important in cooking, but only with the end result. I decided to take that into consideration, stick my nose close to the roux as it was cooking so it could take me away from all the banter and fatuity that was going on around me. 

"I LOVE watching TV...ESPECIALLY FOOD NETWORK."

"I once did it that way. Pop and go. Pop and go. Pop and go. Pop and go."

What were they all talking about? Doesn't matter. Focus. 

The roux was coming along, becoming the beginning stages of baby bowel movements and sizzling like fresh manure from a horse's ass. Why all the comparisons to shit if it's so delicious, you ask? Well, my friend, it's just how I see things. I know that this is an agent, agent zero if you will. It simply gets the high priest where it needs to be and dissipates into the shadows of other starting agents. Along with them are oil, pan spray, and margarine. They have a secret society to be loyal to their masters, which happen to be the rest of the ingredients in your dish. But the butter is always the tricky one. It wants to overthrow the dish. Become the master, the high stick in charge. Sometimes it does, and butter happens to overpower a dish in magical ways. The problem lies therein the butter's true goal: to take over the culinary world. 

The roux was finished, stirring it occasionally so it wouldn't stick. 

Remember: Butter. That's all you need in life. 

CAN I GO HOME NOW PLEASE?

The process of making soup can be extremely tedious. Every element of each step is no more important than the other, therefore being equally annoying overall. The flavor produced can set you into a euphoric state, sliding across your palate like a slimy oyster and awakening every taste bud from a long, winter slumber. The saltiness of the base, the finely cut mire poix (which, by the way, is a pain in the outer portion of my asshole), the al dente noodles, the boiling over on top of the stock pot that looks like shaving leftovers from a very, very hairy man, and a color always comparable to bowel movement extracts and alcoholic stomach failure excretions. Do I like soup you ask? Try tasting the same soup 47 times over a one hour period, four hours total, equaling 188 times in a day, 4 times a week for 2 weeks, and tell me that you'd want to swim in it's contents like it's a heavenly pool of Guiness beer.

Taste testing, assuringly making your palatte slump, is essential. Flavor must be correct, and, like I said before, must be tested multiple times. Imagine hunting deer for 10 seasons in a row with no luck. On the 11th year, you finally nab that bastard, a 10-pointer at that. You're ecstatic, excited, relieved you finally succeeded after 10 years of thorough disappointment. You may return home, skin the damn thing down to it's REAL birthday suit in your living room and get the most you can out of your reward. You may use the skin to walk around in, naked underneath and eating small, furry animals to feel "at one" with spirit of the "Deer-siah." All of a sudden you're in the hospital, Dr. Spaceman asking you what it's like to be a deer and how he can join your cult of animal personalities. You reveal the true side of this delusional doctor to another doctor by the name of Dr. Savefur, thinking that he will be able to help you. He ends up recommending you to a mental therapist who specializes in "animal idolizers." You find yourself confessing feelings of fear when winter time arrives, awareness of leaving your tracks in the snow, the blinding stage fright of the color orange, the annoyance of not having a clearance for your antlers when walking through small tunnels, the desire to, although taboo, to try venison, just to see what you taste like and what all the hype is about, and the detestation to be mounted on a wall to only stare at all the morons admiring your ugly mug for the rest of your after life.

Your attention to detail on the traits of a deer and your ability to explain it in an intelligent manner leads the government to believe that you're a species of "smart deer." You get fame and fortune, marry a beautiful young swamp raised alligator, and live in an outhouse in Australia. You get into gambling, find yourself in major debt to a guy they call the "Gamblorine Man", lose your hot wife, and end up in Applebee's as the night porter, occassionally recognized as a 15 minute animal washed up celebrity.

Now, sampling soup to taste is a similar road. You taste test forever, told you're crazy for thinking it's perfect, then commended on the flavor the next day when the contents have had a chance to develop. You're then praised with chef's awards and sexually driven comments from waitresses and busboys, soaking it all in as a diaper does to baby movements. Then you start to burn out, mainly by the phrase "It's soupy!" which you unfortunately trademarked. Tired of being referred to as "The Soupinator", the frustration only continues at home when you're wife keeps trying to mimick your great creation and constantly asks, "Taste this, see if it's bad." She could simply ask for the recipe, but doesn't have that part of her brain developed yet. You become content to find out you have a fellow competitor, who everyone calls 'Clam Soupocinco" who talks shit about your soup game and wants to challenge you with his new soup fusion called "SouperBowlFowelBowel." You let him reign victorious and live the rest of your life alone, overjoyed by the non-profit organization that you started called "Salad Alone!", which specializes in educating people that soup does not always have to go with salad.

So now tell me, is it worth it?

In the complicated state of the baking industry, one can appreciate the value of great dough. It seems like people pass this by like beggers on the street these days, but the importance of quality dough is hard to come by. It's not something you purchase from the supermarket (by the way, who calls it a supermarket anymore? THIS GUY) and walk away happy as a sea mussel that missed the batch that got boiled for overweight consumers at the casino. It is a product of greater magnitude with universal possibilities. It's a being that you create from your heart, your pelvic region, your big left toe. It's a form of cloning the late, great Ultimate Warrior of the WWF (whichever one you want to pick is fine. I think he had three alias). The texture of dough and it's consistency is difficult to grasp at first, fumbling it around in your hands like a newly used diaper. The true beauty of it's art form is that once you get it, you've got it. Like stink on shit, you feel like the shit. 

I had my first experience with dough last week in my lab. The chef is hosting a 5 star dinner next month at the school, and needs 1600 duck raviolis made before that to be served to the trust fund babies that contribute to the school who have never actually been there before. Nice that they donate their not-so-had-earned-money, but the infomercial fame and not-so-much fortune is what they really strive for. It's a sad truth, but people want to shine like a dog's ass just because they can. 

So we enter the lab with little to no knowledge of how to make pasta. Chef showed us briefly how to mix the dough, get the consistency we needed, and roll it through a pasta machine to lay the damn thing flat out to assemble the product. It was a crash course for sure, but I followed with great detail. I took words that he was saying and pretended they were coming from someone more important, like an imperial officer at jury duty (you know, the guy who says, "ok, juror #9 (that's you!) you are excused. They become a fantasy of yours based solely on the fact that he or she has the power to rid you of such a stupid responsibility as jury duty). 

I took what I learned and immediately started working on the dough. Tough, dry, and the color of mucus from a rhino. It was easy to work with the first time through the ravioli, setting it on the mold and slapping those duck filled heavenly pieces on the table like a stripper hitting the bottom of the pole. The true challenge was using the excess dough to make another ball of fun to go through the pasta machine again. This. Was. Ridiculous. 

Evidently, I was the only person that could grasp a handle on the hard to work with dough. People were yelling at it, throwing it against the table telling the dough it was worthless and not worthy of their time, and bribing others that had fresh dough to exchange for some hard boiled eggs or a quick reach-around. None of these approaches obviously worked, so I stepped in and explained. 

"Guys, you have to caress the dough. Make it feel loved. Massage it where there may be tension. Talk dirty to it like you're about to fill it out like an application. You get now, right?"

Silence. Blank stares. Drool dripping. You get the picture. 

I ignored the ignorance and went about my way of dealing with the dough. I'd compliment it, give it air kisses, and congratulate it on a formation well done. It's a way of respecting the dough, and, in turn, the dough will love you for it. 

The crew continued to watch. Crew watcher count: 4

4! 4 people sitting around me, watching me work. Watching this sexy process continue for 90 minutes. 

90 minutes. Yes, really. 

I didn't mind the gawkers and ooh ahhers. They made me feel good, like I was doing a dough demonstration for a bakery company that predicted future profits so they could steal the money and spend it on strippers. Then put 60,000+ out of jobs and go bankrupt in less than 24 hours. Billions gone. Why does that sound so familiar?

But at least I'd know dough better than anyone else. 

We managed to finish 300 that day. Only 1300 to go. 

Fuck. Me. 

In the world of eggs, there is yellow and white. A membrane surrounds it all, transparent and full of discrepencies. Ever peel a hard boiled egg? It's a straight bitch if you don't make friends with said membrane first and get underneath it. The consistency of any egg prepared any way is a matter of developing a relationship with it, caressing it down and whispering sweet everything's into it's non-existant ears. Give it a little massage, tell it that it's beautiful. Give it a reach-around.

Yes, I've been working with nothing but eggs for the past 2 weeks. I know it shows like a cold sore, but I have no other option but to embrace eggs as my partners and hold them close to my heart.

We moved on to the final stage of egg cookery: Benedicts. From the egg to the Hollandaise sauce, it's created from the scratchy surface. If you don't know what Hollandaise sauce contains, and you enjoy it, you may not want to know. Let's just say it's not the healthiest sauce in the world. It's a high recommendation from the fat guy from LOST and a low recommendation from Richard Simmons. Heart attack, anyone? I got you...

People in the kitchen have been referring to our egg friends as "eggy." This is something my 12 year old niece would say (wait, nevermind. she has read more books than me. Seriously). So maybe my 6 year old nephew. HA! There's someone who isn't smarter than me. Or is he? Norts.

"Eggy" has become a regular phrase with laughter and light banter involved. I try to slide it aside to the low brow part of my brain, shifting my head to between my ass cheeks to find any sort of humor involved. If the corner of the room is occupied for this position (which happens to be a favorite yoga pose of mine), I have to resort to tuning it out. Like ignoring Elmo when he's on TV (very difficult for me to do), I find a happy place and work on my shit.

Separating egg yolks from egg whites seems to also be a hit in the kitchen. The slimy texture and gooey appearance drive people wild. I personally feel as if I'm handling Slimer's testicals or even Slimer's girls' ovaries. It's very awkward, and I try to get through this process as quickly as possible. Others, well, take their time. I wonder what they think about when handling, these, um, yolks.While, uh, staring at me.

Mind drifting...

...

Ok I'm back.

The poaching of an egg is easy. Put it in water, take it out a little while later, and BLAMMO. Poached egg. Here's an equation to live by for these things:

Hot water + Egg + 1 non-idiot + 2 working eyeballs = Perfectly poached egg

Follow this and hopefully you can be the third part of the equation.

I beat the Hollandaise sauce over low heat to get the texture right. 1 part egg yolks, 2 parts butter (there's your recipe for simple Hollandaise sauce. If you still enjoy after knowing this, enjoy watching your ass get gigantisized). Beating, beating beating. add cold water. Beat some more. Turn heat down. Beat, beat, beat. Here it comes...

AH! That creamy texture! I'm so relieved!

You know what, valued reader? You're sick.