On smells of home and being cold.

As I am typing this my toes are freezing off. There is something so drastically different about the cold here-- something I have yet to get used to. The days are fine, but considering that is between the hours of 7:30 am and 3:30 pm isn't really saying much. And as soon as the distant sun hastily crawls behind the London skyline the sky seems to break open and begin air conditioning the city. The clarity of the sky is quite endearing, I just wish those winking stars would breathe a little warmth on my sun-rise colored toes.
Good thing cooking at school is such a warm process-- warming not only my skin this week but, alas, my nostalgic heart.
Sea food was the main focus, and boy are there some smells still lingering in my pores that I really wish would stop lingering. This week began with fish (round fish, flat fish, red fish, blue fish)

and ended with shell fish (muscles and oysters and crab, oh my...).

The indescribable smell of cooking muscles always brings me right back to my fathers kitchen (along with the not-so-pleasant smell of gumbo... which would never fail to send our house in to a sort of fumigation mode. Complete with blocking off the whole kitchen in hopes that no odd, imposing, cajun smells would escape and seep into the "new" drapes my mother had been hemming for the past three years.)

The trout we prepared also brought me back to a certain fishing trip my family went on when my sister and I were but wee fishermen. This wasn't because of the way we cooked it, per se-- trout au beurre noisette, although probably one of the best tasting things known to man, is the opposite of anything I ate as a child (I mostly ate t-bone steaks and pre-bagged caesar salad)-- but more in the way we, well, butchered it. 

On that fateful fishing trip my sister and I made the mistake of thinking of the little trout pond as a big fish bowl full of happy little shiny pets. I named mine Pickles (or was it Freckles? I was really into both of those things at the time...) and Olivia, being as enthusiastically creative as she's always been, named hers Silver. After proudly playing with our new, slimy friends--splashing sporadically in their bucket--they were carted off to the "cleaning lady". Things became confusing when the cleaver so cleanly chopped Freckles' head from his scaly body-- leaving him lifeless and, as I cupped the floppy body in my palms, ultimately less fun to play with.

You might be thinking, "Oh, this is when she converted to vegetarianism." but you would be wrong...

Because, as we sat around the campfire later that evening, I learned just how good fresh fish grilled over an open fire can make the food chain taste. 

Now all I need a steaming mug of mulled wine and an electric blanket.

...And some offensively strong perfume.

-H

Some very unhappy organs

My internal organs were very displeased with the theme of this weeks cuisine classes.
Up until now the times I have wanted to shrivel up and cry due to close encounters of the butchered kind have been slim-to-none. (Except for the whole cracking the spine of the lamb thing. Heebie jeebies.)
But, alas, the french have proved resourceful... And by that I mean they eat everything that hide or feathers have encased. Excluding, of course, ugly bones and chicken wings (which have always been my favorite part of a chicken... but then again I don't know how much tailgating, beer drinking and finger licking they do in France so, to be safe, it  might be best to leave that tradition to the Americans.)
Yes, I know, eating livers and kidneys isn't something to write home about (especially since my parents read my blog and therefore it would just be redundant to write to them about it anyway...), but have you ever actually prepared such a delicacy? It's bloody and gloopy and made my very own organs wriggle and screech like they were watching Silence of the Lambs for the first time. All alone. In a dark basement.

This is the only way to describe handling a huge calf's liver:

Thank you Google Images. And thank you Blob Fish. 

ALSO. Who the HELL decided to name guts "sweetbread"???

Please, for the sake of a vegetarian bread lover, change the name from something that sounds, initially, so pleasant. 

And my sincerest apologies to any "offal" lovers-- I do admit that, once cooked, they do look less gruesome and, maybe, even appetizing:

Great learning experience. You should try it some time-- Just don't think about big giants scraping and slicing your kidneys right from their precious little nook inside your torso and you'll be fine! :)

-H

The sweet, and then the bittersweet.

Apparently you can make fruit cake look appetizing. And, also, apparently fruit cake is actually consumed over here-- And enjoyed. ???
Along with snails, I believe it is one of the only things most American's actually won't eat and, in my family, at least, fruit cake has been a long standing joke; creatively being passed between my Grandmother and our good family friend Kevin every Christmas. It (yes, IT-- the same ol' cake) took on many different forms: a door stop, bird feed, decoration on a picture frame, and, my favorite, the surface on to which a battery-opperated Bob The Builder toy happily drilled away at.
So you can believe my apprehension when I opened my recipe folder and saw that we would be making a "light fruit cake".
Hey France! Don't think that prefacing it with the word "light" will change anything.

Kind of tempting, right?

Still bad, though. Still just doesn't hit the palate like you want it to-- super gnarly on the taste buds. 

But a pretty doorstop, indeed.

Luckily the whole fruit cake incident was made up for with, what my Brazilian friend Alvaro likes to call The Shrek Cake, but is actually called a "Plane Jane" cake:

It is made with pistachio (giving it that nice, green hue) and almond paste, and is incredibly pleasant-- a wonderful cake with tea. 

And then we move on to the gut-wrenchers. Full of butter and sugar, and sugar and butter, and alcohol and a little bit of raspberry jam:

  

Attack of the sponge cakes!

Don't be fooled by their cool, careful exterior-- once ingested these bad boys will create hell in your digestive tract. One bite was my stroopwafel limit (anyone who has every tried a stroopwafel will understand that reference. Anyone who hasn't... Go eat a stroopwafel.)

We're done with cakes for now, thank the lord-- just the smell alone is enough to make you queasy.

But all of this baking is really getting me in to the holiday spirit, even more than Oxford street already has. My walk to and from the bus stop every day is just a steady stream of twinkly lights, jolly saxophone players and tidings of comfort and joy. (Oooh tidings of comfort and joy). (Shoot, now I have that song stuck in my head forever.)

What is also helping me transition into winter-times is the slowly dwindling presences of light, leafy greens at the farmers market. This is the bitter-sweet part of my post because I am finding immense joy in the ebb and flow of seasonal foods. Of course I can't live without my morning banana and when I find a ripe avocado I literally can't contain my joy, but having to start buying bottled tomatoes and dark, winter greens is warming my foodie soul.

Sauteed kale and butternut squash soup, here I come!

Happy transitioning,

-H

Liquids that warm you up.

So yesterday my classes consisted of two things:

Soups and wines. 

And considering the recent temperature drop, it couldn't have come at a better time. 

London-Town sure has been Foggy lately. And drippy. Feels all too familiar. 

Seattle and London really are leaky pipes in the plumbing of the world.

ANYWAYS, back to soups!
We made: Potato and leek soup, French onion soup, Crab bisque, Beef consommé, Chicken and mushroom, Cream of cauliflower and so much more!
We actually only made those six, but I honestly didn't know how to end that sentence.

Soups are extremely intimidating. Everything has to be perfect or else the soup ends up either being baby food... or a weirdly savory juice-- Both of which, when you are expecting to eat (drink? slurp?) soup, are very, very disconcerting and awkward. There is no doubt in my mind that everyone has had at least one bad soup experience. It is unpleasant.
But, I mean, there wasn't much unpleasantness with the soups being made at Le Cordon Bleu that day. Thank you, distinctively high french food standards. 

What ALSO wasn't unpleasant that was the wine class I attended. Which was basically an hour of learning how to make wine (which was interesting and also an incredibly attractive career path) and then two hours of wine tasting (which was also interesting...ly... fun.)
So, for those who haven't wine tasted before... I would highly recommend it. It's so stupid. And I mean that in the best way possible. It's like karaoke. There is no point in even entering a karaoke bar unless you are willing to shed your inhibitions and grab the mic. When you taste wine, you have to really get in to it: You can't just sniff the wine, you must INHALE the wine; When you sip the wine you must hold it and swish and gurgle and swirl it in your mouth until you have the proper coating of tannins and aromas and hints in your mouth.
I got so into it. I smelled hints of pineapple and green apple in the whites and leather and black fruits in the reds. Such a joyous affair! I even noticed a little pep in my step walking to the bus after class-- But that might've been because of all the tannins and aromas and hints that accidentally traveled from my mouth into my stomach.

Happy sipping, slurping, swishing and gurgling!

-H

I was the butcher, now the baker and possibly the Glade Scented Candle(-stick?) maker.

So remember when I said that pumpkin time was my favorite time?

Well, I'm sorry, but I lied. 

Bread time is my favorite time. 

Maybe followed by bread and cheese time. 

And THEN pumpkin time.

But pumpkins are no longer relevant! So expel them from your minds' stomach until they arrive in pie form on your Thanksgiving table and please continue on with me, this fine November, to unravel the mysteries of Bread Baking!

Do you know why bread time is my favorite time? 

Many reasons, but let's start at the nose.

The wonderfully wafting smell of happy little loafs which have just jumped joyously from the oven is the best smell in the world. Period. Please don't argue with me. Yeah, jasmine is pleasant and pachouli will always tie in nicely with any degree of body odor, but--flowers and Birkenstocks aside--fresh bread is the best gift your nostrils will ever receive. It really should be a Glade Scented Candle. I would probably buy them out. 

One of the main reasons why I believe this is such a holy smell is simply because it's lack in our first world lives. We have grown incredibly estranged from baking, and yet it can be such a therapeutic and rewarding process. All you knead (get it? "knead" instead of "need"?) is a little bit of strength, a little bit of patience, and the whole-hearted ability to get a little dirty. Three things I believe essential not only in bread making, but in life. 

And check out the product of that fundamental trifecta:

Isn't it just beautiful?

You can't get much more rustic and wholesome then a fresh, crusty loaf-- sorry Norman Rockwell. 

So please, let loose and reconnect yourself with the therapies of old! Revel in the fundamental trifecta! Allow your nose the experience of it's schnozzy life time! 

Happy baking, my friends--

-H

P.S. If you want a bread recipe, let me know. I would post one on here... but the art of choosing as never been my forte. 

ŒUF-da!

To our delight we had this demonstration in the morning. 8 am to be exact. That part wasn't to our delight. But eating fancy French eggs was. I mean, the eggs were English... But, at any rate, they were trés bien.
Trés bien but also trés strange. The omelets are rolled up like Swedish Pancakes and the scrambled eggs looked more like the product of one too many bottles de vin. But I must put my folded omelets and chunky scrambles aside and appreciate the delicacy:

We also learned how to perfectly poach an egg. And, although I already know this will anger my father, we were highly advised from using the "vortex" method. The water should be moving "slightly, like a summer's breeze". There are no vortexes in France apparently, only soft breezes to aid our little egg friend from falling apart. How kind and gentle. 

My favorite types are the eggs cooked in dishes and, of course, the hard and soft boiled eggs. They make you feel so regal. Eating a tiny egg out of a tiny cup with a tiny spoon. So stupid, but so fun. 

Also, MAN, there is a lot of butter in French cooking. We learned how to properly fry an egg with enough butter to satisfy a Texan! Although it did look prettier than anything you would find in the south. You would need to add at least 3 times the amount of bacon. 

This is making me hungry. I just might go poach an egg. 

-H