The raw and the uncooked
Update: I continue to profit culinarily from my move to Marin, but professionally the whole job situation is looking like something of a comedic disaster.
I was scheduled to work for two hours on Friday, which is just a bit ridiculous considering that my commute is one hour in each direction. I arrived at work just in time to meet Craig Ponsford, of Sonoma’s Artisan Bakers, who was finished teaching a class on breads and shooting the shit with my sister in the Ramekins kitchen.
He seems like a jovial sort, and rather extravagantly flirtatious as well. This was my first encounter with one of these confident, rakish young chefs that everybody keeps talking about. It’s as if working in a hot kitchen all day keeps one’s testosterone levels near a constant boiling point.
“Lisa never told me she had such a cute sister,” he exclaimed after zooming across the kitchen to introduce himself.
“That’s probably cause she didn’t want to take the spotlight off herself; she’s like that,” I shot back.
“SHE HAS A BOYFRIEND!” roared my sister over the hum of the mixer. How could she hear all this with the din and the distance?
“I don’t mind. Where is he?”
“Chicago,” I mumbled, turning scarlet. I’m not a shy person, but I’m also not used to such overt, and overtly insincere, flattery. Luckily then I was called away to do something of incredible unimportance in the shop, so I didn’t have to produce any more clever banter. I wonder whether Craig gets a lot of ladies by capitalizing on his skill with the chocolate and the sugary treats? If I was him, I would work that angle like there was no tomorrow.
The highlight of my two hours at work involved a supermarket run to buy some bottles of hard cider that were needed to marinate a pork leg for that evening’s Mexican cooking class. I left shortly after with half a Cornish hen rubbed in five-spice powder, a cinnamon muffin, some wedges of the most wonderful Challah I’ve ever had (thanks, Craig!), a large bag of my sister’s sublime granola, and a bag of fruit salad that included fresh kiwi and pineapple.
***
Saturday began with three hours of literary hell in the form of the GRE Subject Test. Afterwards I rewarded myself with a trip to Rohnert Park’s Taqueria Sol Azteca for some chicken and chorizo tacos, extra guacamole, before heading back down to Marin. There I met my friends Rachael and Rodrigo, and we spent the afternoon wandering around Fairfax, eating organic local pumpkin ice cream and then an entire raw dinner at the town’s new vegetarian and vegan restaurant. It was surprisingly good. They serve a cup of tea infused with so much ginger that it burns your throat; I love such things but I can hear Randy’s quiet gagging as I type this. My dinner (a tapas platter) resembled the kinds of foods that my parrot Pico would eat with gusto, and it all tasted pretty lovely.
Midway through our meal a gaggle of hippies arrived with graying braids, Tibetan jackets, a harp and a violin. They began to perform an impromptu concert which we managed to drown out with an off-color discussion about the potential gastronomic consequences of Rachael’s entrée, terrifyingly named “Live Lasagna”. Hippies. Can’t live with them, but their presence remains oddly comforting.
A few hours later found me starving, so I wolfed down the congealed remains of some organic macaroni and cheese (bunny shape, of course) that I had made the day before. I guess the raw diet moves through one’s system rather quickly.
I am too tired to post anything more now, but prepare yourself for my recollection of Sunday, which may have been my finest California gastronomic experience yet.
I was scheduled to work for two hours on Friday, which is just a bit ridiculous considering that my commute is one hour in each direction. I arrived at work just in time to meet Craig Ponsford, of Sonoma’s Artisan Bakers, who was finished teaching a class on breads and shooting the shit with my sister in the Ramekins kitchen.
He seems like a jovial sort, and rather extravagantly flirtatious as well. This was my first encounter with one of these confident, rakish young chefs that everybody keeps talking about. It’s as if working in a hot kitchen all day keeps one’s testosterone levels near a constant boiling point.
“Lisa never told me she had such a cute sister,” he exclaimed after zooming across the kitchen to introduce himself.
“That’s probably cause she didn’t want to take the spotlight off herself; she’s like that,” I shot back.
“SHE HAS A BOYFRIEND!” roared my sister over the hum of the mixer. How could she hear all this with the din and the distance?
“I don’t mind. Where is he?”
“Chicago,” I mumbled, turning scarlet. I’m not a shy person, but I’m also not used to such overt, and overtly insincere, flattery. Luckily then I was called away to do something of incredible unimportance in the shop, so I didn’t have to produce any more clever banter. I wonder whether Craig gets a lot of ladies by capitalizing on his skill with the chocolate and the sugary treats? If I was him, I would work that angle like there was no tomorrow.
The highlight of my two hours at work involved a supermarket run to buy some bottles of hard cider that were needed to marinate a pork leg for that evening’s Mexican cooking class. I left shortly after with half a Cornish hen rubbed in five-spice powder, a cinnamon muffin, some wedges of the most wonderful Challah I’ve ever had (thanks, Craig!), a large bag of my sister’s sublime granola, and a bag of fruit salad that included fresh kiwi and pineapple.
***
Saturday began with three hours of literary hell in the form of the GRE Subject Test. Afterwards I rewarded myself with a trip to Rohnert Park’s Taqueria Sol Azteca for some chicken and chorizo tacos, extra guacamole, before heading back down to Marin. There I met my friends Rachael and Rodrigo, and we spent the afternoon wandering around Fairfax, eating organic local pumpkin ice cream and then an entire raw dinner at the town’s new vegetarian and vegan restaurant. It was surprisingly good. They serve a cup of tea infused with so much ginger that it burns your throat; I love such things but I can hear Randy’s quiet gagging as I type this. My dinner (a tapas platter) resembled the kinds of foods that my parrot Pico would eat with gusto, and it all tasted pretty lovely.
Midway through our meal a gaggle of hippies arrived with graying braids, Tibetan jackets, a harp and a violin. They began to perform an impromptu concert which we managed to drown out with an off-color discussion about the potential gastronomic consequences of Rachael’s entrée, terrifyingly named “Live Lasagna”. Hippies. Can’t live with them, but their presence remains oddly comforting.
A few hours later found me starving, so I wolfed down the congealed remains of some organic macaroni and cheese (bunny shape, of course) that I had made the day before. I guess the raw diet moves through one’s system rather quickly.
I am too tired to post anything more now, but prepare yourself for my recollection of Sunday, which may have been my finest California gastronomic experience yet.
posted by cindym at 11:00 PM
1 Comments:
about two years ago, i ate dinner at a raw food restaurant in new york--greenwich village, of course. my friend courtney and i were seated next to a thin and pasty young couple; they were clearly strong adherents to the raw food lifestyle. in the course of the meal, we realized they were out for her birthday. he gave her some sort of self-help book, the title including the term: "self-actualization," i think. towards the end of the meal, she confessed to him that, horror of horrors, she had forgotten to put enzymes in his salad that morning. shame!
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