Beyond The Horizon

Suppose I was to tell you that it's just beauty that's calling me, the beauty of the far off and unknown, the mystery and spell which lures me, the need of freedom of great wide spaces, the joy of wandering on and on----in quest of the secret which is hidden over there----beyond the horizon?

Eugene O'Neill just gets me.

I've been moved to begin this blog again for several reasons, not the least of which is the nagging need to simply put to paper the thoughts that have daily clouded my head for some time now.
We've been on the road for 4 months now, having just arrived in St. Petersburg, Florida about a week ago. It's been a long, somewhat dreary few months and to go so suddenly from the grey of St. Louis winter to the Florida ever-summer has been beautiful, but has left my body feeling somewhat out of whack. Sleeping and eating haven't come naturally to us lately, but our rhythm is beginning to develop. We've been camping in the backyard of my cousin and his fam, which has its own charms and delights, among which are the otherwise missed sounds and sights of "nature".

These past few years have moved us to extreme distances, both literal and figurative. It's sometimes hard to wrap my brain around, but I've lived in 5 states in the last 3.5 years. Which is only worth nothing because 3.5 years ago, whilst moving from Oregon to Colorado, I stated with such determination, "This is It. For awhile.". That while would be short, as 6 months later I wound up, to everyone's great surprise, in Los Angeles. And, now, a year and a half later, here we are on the opposite coast, almost as far from Los Angeles as possible within the United States, having stopped momentarily in several places along the way.
St. Petersburg and L.A. have a lot in common- the trees, the wildlife, the sunny beaches, air thick and heavy with salt and moisture. Unlike L.A., though, St. Pete has a very laid-back and friendly feel. To wit, every person we've met here has appeared genuinely interested in conversation, rather than selectively screening your words for possible contacts that may help them in the future.

We know this is a temporary move (though, to be fair, none of our plans have gone as we expected, so...), but St. Pete feels like an okay place to land for a few months.

Leaves change, brioche remains

These last few days have been grey and gloomy, feeling very much like fall. The restaurant is closed on Monday and Tuesday, so I took yesterday to drive upstate and see the leaves. It's been 10 years since I lived on the east coast for all of a split second, and it was this same time of year that I moved to Boston, but I was different then and wasn't very interested in, or appreciative of the beauty and peace in simple things like the changing of leaves, or the ripple of wind on the river.

I'm happy that life moves forward, even if we dig in our heels and are reluctant to adapt to its speed. I'm grateful that nothing lasts forever, even though sometimes I don't recognize it in the moment. There are times when I am compelled to beat myself up for the mistakes of my youth, for not taking advantage of opportunities that were handed to me, for missing out on what was right in front of me. I was (am) a stubborn and strong-willed person, and I have often struggled to find a way to use that to my advantage, rather than allowing it to sabotage my success. These days, the moments of stubbornness and strong-will are often balanced with deep contemplation, hours of analyzation and pondering the merits of one choice versus another. I have found a calm in the kitchen amidst the hectic chaos. I have found a purpose and direction that I always knew was within me, but did not find the patience to steer in the right direction.

Baking has become a metaphor for me. It is dynamic in practice and serves to remind me that nothing is permanent. There are always highs and lows, burned forearms, sliced fingers, emotional and physical breakdowns, an ongoing and endless process that can make you feel overwhelmed with joy one moment and completely despondent the next. You can't count on any two days, even any two hours to be the same.
It takes a strong dedication and perseverance to be a pastry chef. To be anything, really, but to be a pastry chef takes intense dedication so as not to be totally discouraged by the mistakes. The rewards are beautiful and many.
You find your every sense being stimulated all day long- the vibrant, deep, contrasting colors of seasonal fruits and vegetables; the cool, smooth, elastic touch of dough as it rises; the sweet, buttery aroma filling your nose as something is pulled fresh from the oven; and, of course, all the new and sensational tastes that the kitchen brings.

Any who know me know that I am a caregiver. That I seek to care for people as much as I can, sometimes in the past to my own detriment. Cooking allows me the opportunity to take care of people in the most organic way possible. Baking affords me the luxury of being a part of peoples lives, in the most simple and honest way.

I'm moved to share the Killed by Dessert manifesto, written by one of my personal pastry idols, Michael Laiskonis:
We are pastry chefs. We are the red-headed step-children of the culinary brigade. You’ll find us in the basement, or in some hard-fought and carefully carved-out corner of the kitchen. We are protective of that space, our equipment, our atmosphere. We are particular. We strive to be masters of several disparate disciplines. We are sugar burners, cream puffs, the keepers of ‘Candyland’- and to too many who don’t know any better, we must certainly be just plain ‘bakers’ (not that there's anything wrong with that). We are respected, feared, and ignored.

We are pastry chefs. We treasure our autonomy within the rigid structure around us. We are often left to fend for ourselves and we embrace a do-it-yourself spirit. We are part of a community. We band together, share ideas, and push each other. We take full use of modern technology to create a subterranean network, to shrink the physical space between us. We speak a different language. We seek to explain our intentions through references others just don’t understand. We look at things through a slightly different lens.
We are pastry chefs. We find comfort in repetition and sameness. We are precise, clean, and dexterous. We prefer control to chaos. We are also spontaneous and prone to occasional fits of whimsy. We are students of subtlety. We seek to provide maximum impact. We must predict the future as we cook. We cook with clear intention. We are constantly receptive to inspiration, and that inspiration often comes from the unlikeliest of places. We like to break things that aren’t broken, just to see what happens.

We are pastry chefs. We find pleasure in hidden things. We are often most proud of what you rarely ever get to see. We want to let you in on our secrets. We like to speculate as to what your secrets might be. We are in the nostalgia business, and we have a unique opportunity, nay, a responsibility, to tap into your psyche. We recognize the powerful potential of food as a means of dialog. We want to make you happy.

We are pastry chefs. It is up to us to leave a pleasant last impression. Our work is often an afterthought of guests already satiated by savory. We admit that what we provide is mere luxury, yet we know we satisfy your innermost cravings. Each of us, at one time or another, has wished we could simply send dessert first. This is our chance. We just want to kill you with dessert.

White Dogwood

I happened upon this quote recently from one of my favorite poets, Anne Morrow Lindbergh: "After all, I don’t see why I am always asking for private, individual, selfish miracles when every year there are miracles like white dogwood." There has been a great paradigm shift within me in the last year. It has been (and continues to be) difficult to become the kind of person I desire to be, to act and behave in a way that accurately represents my ideals and beliefs. It is much easier to speak about values and ideals rather than set to work to become those values and ideals. Yet, there is a slow transformation that began within me some time ago, and each day I continue to be amazed at the progress Nature has made within me. I can't take credit for most of the work; more than anything, I have simply allowed the change to take place. I have become more open to this transformation and have had to call upon reserves of patience that I didn't know I had, in order to continue to allow the transformation. Watching the cycle of life on the farm here has been marvelous. I mean that literally; it has been something at which I will always marvel. Harvesting the fruits of physical labor with reverence and thanks for the sacrifice of Nature in all forms, transforming the sacrifice into a beautiful meal, and sending the scraps back to the land in order to do so again tomorrow is, well, marvelous. The pace of the restaurant is fast, certainly, but the energy is not. The energy is calm and slow and forces you to be a part of the process, not merely an observer. Even the shit here smells beautiful. As I was driving through the country to arrive here, I found myself repulsed by the stench of shit through the plainlands. It was invasive to my senses, offensive, and overwhelming. I wanted to roll up windows and hold my breath until it was gone, fearful that I would breathe deeply in the smell of methane and chemical waste. The shit here smells different. The animals are well fed and happy and taken care of. There is a sweetness that lingers after the shit smell is gone, so much so that you can nearly identify what they've been eating. Reading an interview with Joel Salatin from the latest Sun Magazine, I was pleasantly surprised to see him comment on the same thing. He remarks, "One of the surest ways to know if a wound is infected is if it is unsightly and smells bad. When it starts to heal, it gets a pretty sheen and doesn’t smell anymore. Farms that are not beautiful and that stink are like big wounds on the landscape." I have witnessed first hand the truth in this statement. When I set out on this journey to become a...whatever I am: chef, pastry chef, culinarian, when I set forth on the journey, I had no idea where it would take me. I was open to whichever direction I was moved by the journey itself, and it has led me here. I have always known, deep in my heart, that I am to be a steward of land and food, and I have shrugged off that responsibility as one that will always be there for me to return to after I'm done with my "living". I am now aware, more than ever, that this is my living. This is where I find my peace and contentment, and to separate myself from this, is to create a separation within myself. I have come to realize the great power of small miracles.

Same, same, but different

Eventful few days here. After a nice 3 day weekend and an uncharacteristically beautiful Yom Kippur, I returned to work on Thursday to a busy workload. We had a group touring the farm and treated them to a grain demo (which ended up being super interesting and informative for moi, as well!) and we had a busy night in the restaurant. After spending hours pitting plums for pickling, and scaling loaves of brioche, I set out to make 5000 chocolate chip cookies. Yes, 5000. Scale, mix, scale, roll, cut, bake, and repeat. All night. I wonder if I will always be one of those "the grass is always greener" people, because I found myself longing for the high-demand chaos of dinner service, despite all of the days prior when, in the midst of said chaos, I could be seen daydreaming about the calm, monotony of the bakeshop. Neither are better or worse than the other, and both have their merits, yet I still seem to have a hard time being content or present in the midst of either. Awareness of this distraction made it only slightly easier to refocus and actually complete the task. We'll get back to that...I was also distracted by this worsening pain in my side and back, that eventually got so bad that I left work early to see a doctor. Turns out, the back pain and cramps I had been chocking up to being a muscular issue for almost a year, was actually shingles. I was given some pain medication and an antiviral, and sent on my way. I am not a good patient as it is, but I am especially not a good bed-ridden patient. I already feel inferior at Stone Barns and, as an intern, there is already within me a compulsion to prove myself. Throw in a physical challenge like this and I find that my fear that I will be treated too delicately runs rampant. Having said that, it would be easy for me to give in to this fear and push myself beyond the physical limits that I should, (and I am very compelled to do so) but I have gained the wisdom to know that this just a projection of insecurity and that, in the end, I will do much more damage to my body and my ability to be a pastry chef if I can't honestly assess my situation and rest when it is needed. Back to the bakery...I made a series of careless errors in the last few days, about which I am embarrassed. I burned 3 trays of cookies at the end of my shift, because I forgot to set the timer (a rookie mistake), and I pushed a half sheet of cooling butternut squash off of the speed rack because I was being hasty as I pulled cookies from the oven. I was ashamed to waste the product, but there is no point on dwelling; the best thing in situations like these is to refocus, be more mentally aware, and move on. I am learning the delicate balance of efficiency and quality (key: think less, do more), and after being hounded daily about "the details", I am finally finding success in the details. The time at the farm is flying past, and I am grateful for the lessons that my body is absorbing. Tomorrow the restaurant is closed, but we are in need of so much prep for the upcoming Harvest Fest this weekend, that I will be there for several hours. After taking a couple early days due to the shingles, I am eager to make up my hours and regain some credibility with my pastry chef. Objectives for tomorrow: push myself, but not to the point of exhaustion; stay focused and make fewer careless errors; increase efficiency and ask more thoughtful questions.

Avinu Malkeinu

Whatever my spiritual leanings may be at this point in my life, the tradition and ritual of fasting, confession, and repentance on Yom Kippur runs deep within me. The time of reflection is certainly not limited to this holiday, but there is something powerful and moving for me to know that as a community we are engaged in the similar act of repentance, together, on this day. There are many I have wronged in this year, and many by whom I have been wronged, and there is something beautiful and redeeming about making peace with both sides. I believe we do not forgive because those who have wronged us are "deserving" of it, rather I believe we forgive because we are all deserving of the freedom and peace that comes with the act of letting go. It can be painful and difficult, to be sure, to release ourselves from the bondage of bitterness and anger, but to do so is to choose peace and a more non-violent life for ourselves. There are many times I have found myself stuck in the cycle of caving to ego, holding grudges because I do not know how to let go, and carrying a hardness within my heart that serves no purpose other than to weigh me down. So often this hardness has crippled my ability to clearly communicate with those I love, and has threatened to destroy relationships that are valuable and provide much comfort to me. I have found myself behaving in ways that are incongruous with my genuine desire to live in peace with my community, and even the awareness of the act is sometimes not enough to prevent it from happening. To release my friends and family from the unspoken expectations I place upon them, to accept them as they are and not as I wish for them to be, to earnestly seek acceptance by them as I am and not as they wish for me to be, and to forgive myself and my community alike for all the ways in which we fall short. I am reminded of all that is sacred around me, all that is holy within me, and all that is possible within my community. G'mar Chatima Tovah

Ebb and flow

Today marks my last day of my first week at Blue Hill. It's crazy to think that it has only been 5 days of work. This weekend has been a long, delirious, beautiful experience, with today being my first big event at the restaurant. We hosted a marketplace event where folks from an unnamed corporation were able to experience a bit of farm life. I manned the "tomato table" where I served samples of four different heirloom varieties from local farms (green zebra, brandywine, orange beefsteak, and the great white) and, as simple as that may sound, it was a delightful treat and a great way to break up the 15 hour day. I have to say, as much as I enjoy the bakeshop, and as much as I am finding confidence and comfort in dinner service in the restaurant, the event today really enforced my belief that catering is where I am headed. I love to bake, I love the solitude of early, cool hours with the smells of yeasty breads and sweet pastries, but there is something to be said for getting to witness the experience that folks have as they enjoy those treats. I crave that interaction, I am learning, it is the element in which I most thrive, and it fuels my desire to continue feeding and serving people. Beyond the event today, I started the weekend off harvesting asian pears from the farm, followed by prepping and making purees from peaches, plums, and concord grapes. Brief as it may be, I look forward to and treasure any time I get to spend in the orchard or on the farm. It is part of what drew me to this place, and I wish someday to have a farm of my own. I love the fact that I can walk downstairs, out the door about a hundred yards, and have at my disposal nearly every piece of produce that I could want. Today someone commented that this is not how the real world is, and that "American's don't eat like this", which saddened me to hear. Perhaps I am naive, but I don't believe it is unrealistic to hope that everyone can have this kind of experience. If you have never tasted a fresh tomato off the vine, or an ear of corn recently harvested from the stalk, or even a potato straight from the ground, you are missing part of the sweetness that this life offers. As I have said before, I am aware of the way that I have idealized this place and these kinds of experiences, but I do not believe it is out of the realm of possibility that all can share these experiences. One needn't pay hundreds of dollars to taste these foods at Blue Hill (though, I will admit, what I have seen here, and what we produce, does seem to be extraordinary), one must only go as far as the closest piece of land (backyard, window box, farm in the next town over) to enjoy this. I am encouraged by the eagerness that my fellow chefs bring to their work, and I have found myself challenged to become a better, more critical chef by this eagerness. I must admit, though, I was unprepared for the name-dropping that seems so prevalent in this world. I hope that my skill will speak for itself and that my attitude will pave the way for future endeavors, but I am moderately discouraged by the "who knows who" attitude that I am finding runs RAMPANT in this industry. Do we not all share the same love for food and feeding people? Are we not all in this industry because we see the beauty in creating an experience and product by which people are moved? I choose to believe that we chefs, we culinary artists, are driven by a force much greater than praise, and that we would prefer happy, satisfied, full-bellied guests over the momentary satisfaction of having met someone famous, or having worked for someone famous. This may seem hypocritical given my love of Dan Barber, but more than the joy of being able to say that I work for him, I am delighted to say that I am learning from him. He is no greater a human than any of my less "famous" chefs, and I stand to learn just as much from them, and indeed, I am. As this long, hard week draws to a close, and in the midst of the high holiday season, I am so satisfied, so grateful, so humbled, and so earnest in my desire to create more experiences like those that I have had so far. Objectives for tomorrow: SLEEP! And possible wash some of my clothes, which now permanently smell of sweat, oil, fruit (did you know that a million quarts of peach puree can eventually smell like poop?), and meat. Yes, there is soooooooooo much meat here. It's a beautiful thing to converse with a boar one evening, and then eat it the next. And, on that note, I can't wait to break the fast with my executive chef in just a few days. :) Yes, this new year is Happy.

Clear Eyes, Full Hearts, Can't Lose

The best part about working 15 hours today was that I can hardly remember any mistakes I made. Ha. Seriously though, there is plenty of time to dwell on what I did wrong (dumped many quarts of ice cream base on the floor, attempted to send out 3 desserts with the wrong garnish/sauce, burned tuile cookies) but I'd rather ride on the high of an otherwise awesome night. Dinner service is coming more easily to me, and I am leaning to set a pace for myself that is expedient and still precise and accurate. My pastry chef complimented me on my knife skills as I cut pounds and pounds of asian pears into a fine brunoise (thank you, Chefs Cronwell and Thompson for endless hours of practice) and I got to use the sous vide machine solo (honestly, it is the coolest thing in the world). I cranked through another batch of brioche, (again to the praise of my chef!) and made scones, ice cream, concord grape puree, pretzels, flat bread, tuile cookies, and dried another million peaches. I am finding myself more at ease in the large kitchens (though, I will find it hard to leave such generous space) and I am becoming more confident in taking the initiative when I see a need. I am constantly in awe of the environment here; the beauty of the farm transcends the walls of the kitchen and it seems as though everything is bathed in the sense that we are all lucky to be a part of what is happening here. Perhaps that is just projection, but I feel inspired and more creative in this place, as I am challenged by the creativity of my peers. As the week comes to a close and we head into a busy weekend with weddings and large parties, I am finding it necessary to make time to breathe and decompress. The walk-in freezer has become a sanctuary for moments throughout the day, and I have come to really look forward to my hello/goodbye chats with the 700 pound boar who lives at the top of the hill. As I walk up the road to the restaurant I pass the many full chicken coops, the bee house, and the field of boars (all of whom look fat and happy). It is this kind of home that I have sought for many years, in many ways, and I am realizing now that I have idealized it. This realization has increased my gratitude and awareness of the fact that I can take this place with me wherever I go next, as it is already deeply imprinted upon my brain and heart. One of my fellow bakers has labeled all of our speed racks with tape that reads, "Clear eyes, full hearts, can't lose", which I just think is hilarious. Little things like this remind me throughout the day that professionalism must be tempered with a sense of humor, and that both are equally important to survive the day. Objectives for tomorrow: seriously memorize the metric system (thanks a LOT, American education system), become more efficient in tasks without sacrificing standards, breathe, be more observant, burn myself fewer times (2), and sleep in (ha. HA.)