Culinary schools, and giving myself permission

Several years ago, maybe ten, I announced to Jeannie that I wanted something different in my life and I was going to enroll in the night and weekend classes of the Fort Worth Culinary School. "Do you know it costs $2,000?" she asked. I did, and I wasn't fazed--but then when I read about buying your own knives and equipment, etc. I began to lose enthusiasm. Besides the hours, added to my full-time work day would have been really long. Well, I've just read a book titled The Sharper Your Knife, the Less You Cry, by Kathleen Flinn. It convinced me I made the right decision. And I know now that my feet and back could never take the culinary life.
Kathleen Flinn, a writer in her mid-thirties, enrolled in Le Cordon Bleu (Colin and Lisa took a one-day class there on a European trip, but I'm sure it was very different). Flinn was supported in this decision by a boyfriend who put his own life on hold to move to Paris with her. In this memoir, often in the first person, she recounts her cooking experiences, her growing involvement with Mike (and eventual marriage), and their explorations of Paris. It all adds up to fascinating reading, though the cooking parts were the most interesting to me. The cuisine is classic French of course, complicated, with sauce after sauce, meat stuffed with meat. And the chefs are demanding and relentless in their criticism, often humiliating a student when their creation turns out to be less than perfect. Once in Basic, a chef tells her she's wasting her time. (I know I couldn't handle that part!). There are three levels--Basic, Intermediate, and Superior. And Flinn, now Mrs. Kozar, makes it all the way through Superior, but not without some very bad moments--like the time when as a Superior student she forgot to pre-heat her plate, a basic lesson from Basic. One bonus: students may take home what they cooked that day for dinner, though sometimes she gives her food to homless people. Mike sometimes longs for pizza, especially after three consecutive meals of stuffed veal as she prepares for her Superior final, which she ends up taking while deathly ill. And she and Mike cope with houseguests, some unwanted and rude. But she tells it all easily and with humor.
A recipe ends each short chapter--many are the Cordon Bleu recipes, way too complicated even for my love of cooking, but some are from friends and one, when she has the grippe (French for flu) is for basic chicken soup. Did I learn much useful about cooking from this book? No, but I sure wish I could bone a whole chicken, let a lone a turkey, with the skin intact. But did I enjoy reading it. Yes, a whole lot.
Oh, and the sharper knife--it's not that it hurts less when you cut yourself (some Cordon Bleu students suffer lots of cuts and burns) but that chopping an onion makes you cry less. In the end, it's pretty clear she will go back to journalism, but she has followed her passion for cooking and concludes that "the sharper your knife" also means that you can cut away those things that get in the way of your passion and of living your life the way it's meant to be lived. I think I need a sharper knife.
Tonight I gave myself permission to beg off an evening to which I had basically invited myself. I got an invitation to an exhibit opening at a small museum in Weatherford, called friends who I knew would be going, and they said they'd be delighted to pick me up. But today was an off day--in spite of starting it with a most cheerful Jacob--and I was antsy much of the day. Part of me dreaded going to the opening, thinking about the rough parking lot I'd have to negotiate, the fact that I'd only know two or three people, the fact that truly it was an exercise in putting myself out there when I'd be happier at home. But then of course guilt crept in--if I am not careful, I will become a recluse in retirement. Home is so comfortable. Finally, though, I gave myself permission to do what felt right, stayed home with a cold chopped sirloin sandwich, a glass of wine, and a bowl of raspberries. Oh, that's another thing--the exhibit was on rodeo, which I would have enjoyed, but they were serving barbecue--definitely not on Weight Watchers. I think my trouble is less that I decided not to go but that I agonize so over such decisions. That's where I need the sharper knife.

On Becoming a Recluse

Today, I thought it too tempting to become a recluse. My head cold still bothered me. I woke in the early hours, and though my eyes wanted to sleep, my nose didn't. At one point I heard an alarming noise outside--I guess I had dozed off--and then realized it was just my breathing. I couldn't breathe easily and when I could, it was a noisy business. No wonder Scooby went outside early. When I finally got going, I had to force myself to make my two grocery store trips--if I hadn't needed things from each store so badly, I'd have curled up at home. But once home, I felt better and did a lot of chores--even including scooping up the poop pile in the back yard and finally getting rid of that dead baby rat. But I realized I could too easily return to being housebound--which I once was--and I really need to keep making myself go places. Tomorrow morning I'll go to brunch with Betty and then Jordan, Christian and Jacob will come for Twelfth Night dinner.
Tonight I'm watching the presidential debates on the theory that I'm so confused I ought to do everything I can to educate myself--but the programming is so filled with media padding that you don't often hear that much from the candidates. A sort of discouraging thing. Would Iowa and New Hampshire be that important if TV and newspapers had other things to focus on?
Speaking of newspapers, I wrote a letter to the editor recently, and they called yesterday to verify that I'd written it, so I expect it will appear in a day or two. Our local newspaper keeps shrinking--the paper claims that the print form is losing money and they'll focus on the internet. I think the print version is losing money because it gets slimmer and slimmer--less hard news, lots of fluff like a silly section called "Blab!" They have "rolled together" several sections--arts and lifestyle on Sundays, food and lifestyle on Wednesday. There go two of my favorite parts of the paper! I'm sorry, but I really like to linger over the paper with a cup of coffee, particularly on Sunday, and I find it increasingly dissatisfying.
Fixed myself a good dinner tonight. Last night I braised three chicken thighs in a chicken broth/white wine sauce, but that's really the kind of dish that's much better the next day--and it was. My neighbor Sue's parents are Canadian snowbirds--they winter on the Texas Gulf Coast every year and always spend several weeks at Sue's house. One night when they invited me to dinner, her mom fixed a casserole of artichoke hearts and Brussell sprouts--delicious. She used frozen Brussell sprouts but tonight I roasted fresh ones--so good! The casserole sauce for 1 pkg. Brussell sprouts (or equivalent fresh) and 1 can quartered artichoke hearts is 1/2 c. mayonnaise, 1/4 cup melted butter, and 1/4 cup Parmesan. Brussell sprouts always make me think of my nephew, Russell--when he was little we called them Russell sprouts. They're an under-rated vegetable--true, boiled, they're kind of boring, maybe even unpleasant. But try roasting them--trim, cut in half, drizzle with olive oil, sprinkle with salt and pepper and toss with your hands. Then bake at 450 for 15-20 minutes, turning frequently--they carmelize and turn a lovely brown, but you don't want them to burn.