Chef's Balls

A belated happy St. Patrick’s Day and Ides of March, if the latter can be celebrated, to all. On the 15th, I warned a couple people in the kitchen "Beware the Ides of March" and got blank looks. Chef overheard this and walked over, as concerned as I was that these kids today don’t know the reference.

"Do you need a hint?" he asked one of the interns, a feisty Southern girl I’ll call Delilah.

Delilah nodded. Well, I just happened to have a tournee knife in my hand. Chef looked at me, I looked at Chef, and without thinking I growled and faux-stabbed him repeatedly in the chest.

"E tu, Brutus?" he moaned and did an impressive swooning fall, all six-feet-three-inches of him, into the arms of a stunned sous chef, who happens to be a foot shorter than him.

While I believe we both deserve Academy nods for the impromptu performance, it didn’t help Delilah at all. Another intern, who apparently has read something in his life other than a Facebook profile, shouted "Julius Caesar!"

Okay, so maybe there is hope for the next generation.

Other than staging famous death scenes and gettting quizzed on obscure Star Wars references (Chef learned I am as big a SW geek as he is... problem is, he is more into the prequels than I am, so he’s always picking my brain about the movies I know least. He also read all the books, which I never did), I spent most of the week training Delilah on baking and pastry basics (she’s a culinary kid) and futzing about with new menu items, including our most recent addition to the restaurant experience: mignardises.

I am so into mignardises, which are the bite-size after-dinner treats traditionally brought to the table with the check. Yes, I did all the usual production, making ice cream and bread pudding and flourless chocolate cake and cinnamon rolls and yadda yadda yah, but I love those damn mignardises, in part I think because I try to use up leftovers, so it becomes a game for me.

We always have a lot of egg whites on hand, which Chef sometimes uses in bulk for making a consomme raft (when making consomme, adding proteins such as the whites draws impurities together into a disgusting yet efficient "raft" of goo that you can then remove, leaving behind the crystal clear liquid), so I’ve been making swirly meringue cookies, French macaroons with almonds and pistachios and baby tuilles.

I’ve also done port and chocolate cookies, lavender shortbread and fennel shortbread, the latter using the delicate tops of the fennel bulbs which the cooks discard. One day I’ll remember to bring my camera to work and take some pictures.

Chef had the best leftover idea: taking scraps of cake, soaking them in boozy simple syrup and pressing them into sheets to use them as the basis for petit fours. First I used leftover poundcake scraps soaked in rum syrup, topped with a thin layer of boysenberry jam and an even thinner layer of homemade marzipan (hell yeah, I'm making my own marzipan), then cut into one-inch cubes and dipped in pate a glacer (a kind of dipping chocolate you make by combining eight parts melted chocolate with one part canola oil).

The second time I made them, I used chocolate sponge scraps soaked in a mix of Kahlua and espresso, topped with chocolate ganache (think fudgy frosting) before getting the pate a glacer dip. In both cases, after dipping I piped the resort’s "brand" on top. And when I say "brand," I mean it in the old-school way: the same symbol they brand all their livestock with.

When one of Delilah’s baking projects, brownies, turned out badly, Chef suggested we make rum balls from it. Emphasis on rum. He kept tasting the brownie scraps and telling her to add more rum, even past the point where all I could taste was alcohol burn. To be fair, we stock a brand of dark rum that I abhor, but still. Good God.

Outside of the kitchen, Wiley and I were able to get out on a couple long free-range (off-leash) walkies this week, when I did remember my camera:

The Indian Peaks Wilderness Area, viewed from its western edge. I can't wait for the snow to melt enough to get deeper into there after seeing photos of the many lakes and craggy peaks within.

I call this one "can you hear me now?"

You know how much I love dire warnings (in case you can't read it, it says "DANGER KEEP OUT; SWIFT COLD WATER GOES UNDERGROUND DOWNSTREAM; CERTAIN DEATH IF ENTERED"):

Post-walkies, Sir Smalls shows off his new favorite toy: a camo stuffed dog we call Loofus that matches his boss camo bandana.