Holy Crap!

I just took a look online at the triathlon course I'll be doing.


The swim is triangular around a pocket of a good-size, shark-free lake. No problem.


The run is slightly hilly, but nothing scary. Also, I'm just guessing here, shark-free. No problem.


This is the profile for the bike course.





Let me repeat... this is the profile for the course which Cerdic and I must haul our big-boned butts up and over. The earlier, visuals-free description online, when I registered, said "moderately hilly." It did not mention the giant freakin' mountain right smack in the middle of the course.


Okay, yes, I know mountains are technically 1,000 meters or more, but still. I am particularly terrified of what happens at the mile 4 marker. Is it me or does the course get vertical? Should I invest in some rock-climbing gear?? Crap!


I mean, really. Crap!!


Does Cerdic have a -0000 gear that might possibly get me over that monstrosity?


I suddenly feel like I should get a leash for Cerdic because I'm going to be walking him quite a ways on race day.


Maybe you cycling types think I'm over-reacting, but I'm having trouble getting up baby hills with maybe 20' in elevation gain over a quarter-mile.


That said, as I get less terrified of Cerdic, I am finding the momentum we build going uphill, however painfully, turns into warp speed momentum on the down side.


I will not be held responsible for any skinny wenches Cerdic and I take out as we break the sound barrier between mile markers 5 and 6.5.

Tri Again: Week Two Training Recap

Thanks for reading this (if you are) and keeping me honest and off the couch. Actually, I don’t have a couch, but metaphorically speaking...

This was my second and final "base skills" week. In the coming two weeks, I’ll be pushing harder but still not paying much attention to speed so that I don’t get myself all mentally wound up about improving on time, which usually leads to me forgetting about form and pace and ending up hurt.

I’ve decided not to include the daily Wileywalkies in my training log since I do it every day and it’s nothing extra to my routine.

Sunday 20 May: I started the week with a 3.3 mile ralk through my hilly neighborhood, slightly longer than the 5K I’ll be doing at the triathlon.

Monday 21 May: Pilates in the morning. After class, I ralked for 1.1 miles on the indoor track at school, really just to warm up for half an hour of upper body weight training, followed by a half-hour swim.

Tuesday 22 May: nothin’! (Well, aside from the aforementioned not-to-be-mentioned walkies.) A "rest day."

Wednesday 23 May: Pilates in the morning. I had planned to get a quick ralk in before picking up Cerdic at the bike shop, but my afternoon class ran late and I had the choice of either a 15-minute workout, and a rush to get to the store before they closed, or going straight to the store. I opted for the latter.

Thursday 24 May: 3.25 mile ralk followed by half an hour of upper-body weight training. I noticed something interesting about the indoor track at school, and would welcome comments from Dr. Virago and any other runner reading along. Our track is a measly 1/12th of a mile, so I do a lot of turns (I prefer running on it, though, because it’s easier on my knees and ankles). And, like most indoor tracks, there’s a post about doing alternate directions: counter-clockwise Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays and Saturdays, clockwise the rest of the time. I find that when I ralk clockwise, I hurt less and am much faster (about a minute per mile). I decided it’s because, in that direction, my dominant leg (the left one) is on the outside of the turn, giving me more power. Weird, huh?

Friday 25 May: Despite the psyche-scarring circumstances , I managed a decent 45 minute swim. Earlier in the day, I had also planned to take Cerdic out on the road for a spin. Alas, on the very first hill, I shifted wrong and the chain popped off. With much grumbling, I took it back to the bike shop where they showed me how to fix it (ridiculously easy) and explained, once again, the concept of shifting to me (easier said than done). Yeah, yeah. It was at this point that I decided to name my bike, hoping to foster some kind of connection between me and it, other than hatred and dread, that is. When I got home after swimming, I decided I’d had enough traumatic workouts for the day and didn’t bother taking Cerdic out for another test run.

Saturday 26 May: Pilates in the morning. In the late afternoon, I strapped on the helmet that makes me feel like Queen of the She-Dorks and took Cerdic out. Gulp. On the plus side, I live in a very hilly area, so I can’t avoid learning how to shift. Unfortunately, since I don’t know how to shift, or at least don’t have a feel for it, the meager four miles I did were hell. I will say naming Cerdic is helping me tremendously, at least emotionally. I am terrified of riding a bike and my cycling skills are on par with a three-year-old’s, but it does help talking to Cerdic as if we’re in this thing together. It also helps that I live in a very rural area. I didn’t have to worry about anyone other than a couple cows and a rather shocked rabbit hearing me call Cerdic the "son of a pig-eating whore" when I popped the chain off again going uphill.

This time I got off the bike, fixed the chain, got back on and sallied forth.

The Horror. Oh. The Horror.

Due to our class schedule, we are having a nice four-day weekend. So Friday, I headed to campus not to work or learn, but to swim.

As you come out of the women’s locker room, at first you can only see a corner of the pool. I saw an almost perfectly still surface and thought whoo hoo! I’ve got the place to myself (which is usually the case... I’ve never been in the pool there with more than one other person).

As I rounded the corner, however, I saw there were two long, lean men doing laps with such ease that they made barely a ripple. Okay, I can deal with that. There were still three lanes wide open.

The men got to the far end of the pool and stopped to chat with each other.

That’s when I heard them speaking German.

Suddenly, the familiar voice of one of them rang out through the natatorium (yeah, that’s what they call it): "[Pirate]! You haff come to train, ya?"

Oh. Crap.

There I was, in my swimsuit and no makeup, like a deer in the headlights as der Brotmeister and one of the other superfit German chefs looked on.

Those of you who know me well, or who just read this blog closely, know that I have Body Image Issues, and those of you who read the old blog may recall my intense love-hate experience with der Brotmeister, one of my most demanding and yet endearing chefs.

I don’t think the guys reading this will understand, since in my experience, even guys with incredible guts flopping over the waistband of their Speedos (shudder) seem oblivious to their bodies. But I know most of the women reading this, especially my friends who would probably rather die in a burning building than escape wearing just their underwear, right now are saying "oh honey, I’m so sorry for you."

I mumbled hello and got into the pool as quickly as possible, trying not to die of mortification. He swam over.

I heard myself snap "Aren’t you supposed to be sleeping, Chef?" (The day before, I ran into him coming out of his class, looking exhausted, and he told me that after working a double shift for the last three weeks, which means 5 a.m. till 9 p.m. every day, he was going to spend the weekend sleeping.)

He said he had slept in, and then napped after breakfast, and starts to tell me about his day and then asks "Vat’s new?"

I muttered "nothing" and started swimming. He swam beside me for a while and then, I think when he realized I was going for the world record in "Not coming up for air due to intense embarrassment," he finally peeled away.

I would have preferred an actual shark in the pool.

The other chef (a culinary chef I don’t know by name) left soon after, but der Brotmeister hung around, chatting with the lifeguard as he stood there and freakin’ watched me. Go away! Leave me alone! To pinch a line from The Princess Bride that seemed appropriate, "Leave me to wallow in freakish misery!" Arrrrrrrrgh...

I just kept swimming, head down, not even doing the occasional backstroke which I do as a "rest" length.

Ugh. It’s one thing to be prancing about in my swimsuit at the actual triathlon, when I’m surrounded by thousands of other women dressed in equally small outfits, women who are shorter, taller (well, not usually), older, younger, fatter, scrawnier, droopier and so on, all of us sporting hideous swimcaps. It’s another thing completely to have naught but a flimsy piece of spandex between me and the watchful eyes of a naturally athletic chef whom I like.

I would say well, it can’t get worse than that, but that to me sounds like an invitation for more meddling by Fortuna.

If nothing else, I was able to swim the distance I’ll be doing at the triathlon, plus at least two extra laps (I lost count), in less time than I swam the actual course back in 2004, all without getting winded once (I’m a very slow but very steady swimmer) and without being at all sore today.

As to how much therapy I’ll need to recover emotionally from that particular workout, well, that’s another matter entirely.

Res Ipsa Loquitur

I know I’ve been posting a lot about the triathlon, Wiley and the occasional cheffy moment I have at home, but not much about Cookin’ School. It’s partly because we’re in classroom classes now, which aren’t as intense as being in the kitchens and bakeshops. It’s also because the baking and pastry students and the culinary students are mixed together in these classes, and I want to hit the majority of the latter in the head with a hammer.

Yes, that tends to be my solution for everything. But anyway...

Here’s a recap, with as much self-restraint as I can muster to avoid ranting about the idiot contingent.

Our Restaurant Law class is already over and done with. It’s a mere three weeks long. I got a 98 on the final, which surprised me since I found much of the class brain-quakingly confusing. Our teacher was a local lawyer who frustrated the hell out of me because he clearly knew the law and was a font of potential knowledge. But he’s been teaching this class forever, cycling through corporation formation, liability and torts like clockwork to a brand new class every three weeks, and it showed.

Instead of being a font he was more like a whitewater river, streaming laws and case studies and random anecdotes in a steady, unyielding deluge. When people raised their hands to ask a question, he’d snap "What?!" or "Now you’re really making a pest of yourself!" He had a really dry sense of humor, and I suspect he thought treating students’ questions like that was kind of funny, but I felt it was time to get out the old hammer and give his skull a good conk or two.

I’d argue that this is the most important course we have at school, because whether we’re in baking or culinary, whether we’re being hired or hiring people, whether we’re the owner or just the cook of the place that serves bad chicken one day, we’re going to run into legal issues. I wish the course had been longer and the teacher had taken it more seriously.

Though, to be fair, I also can’t blame him or any of our other teachers for being on autopilot. The level of disrespect and inattention the culinary kids show them is amazing. All the baking students, plus my friend Fantasia (her nickname from the old blog), an unusually smart and serious culinary student, cluster in the center first two rows of every class. On either side of us, it’s the Visigoths and the Huns.

No, that’s insulting to Visigoths and Huns.

The culinary students carry on their own conversations, text each other jokes, leave their cell phones on and take calls, shout out what they feel are humorous observations at random, snicker at other students’ questions and generally act like they are five year olds who’ve had too much sugar. Included in the crowd is one of the culinary guys I extern’ed with in Vegas who drove me nuts and The Foie Girl. You may remember The Foie Girl from the old blog, a cross between Reese Witherspoon in "Election" and Linda Blair in "The Exorcist." Well, now that she’s back from extern, she’s even worse, adding a tediously faux-macho swagger to her comic arrogance.

As an aside, she did her extern at the place in the Caribbean that I was briefly considering. Had I gone, since they provide assigned housing, she and I likely would have been roommates.

Does anyone else feel a sudden chill?

Anyway, in addition to making grand pronouncements about her greatness, she is now also prone to doing things like entering the classroom and declaring "Guys, I got so shit-faced last night!"

Thanks for sharing. Next time try a little harder and maybe we’ll all be blessed with the success of your fatal alcohol poisoning.

Some friends in academia have mused about what it would be like to be a non-chef instructor at Cookin’ School. I really think it’s its own special ring of the Inferno. Because I think the culinary students, who are arrogant little shits to begin with in general, see non-chef instructors as non-human. Granted, I don’t take the instructors as seriously in part because I know they will not get in my face and scream invective like a chef might, but the culinary brats take it one step further and seem to go out of their way to disrespect them, much in the same way kitchen staff tries to make life hell for the servers in a restaurant. The old "you’re not one of us" mentality, compounded by stupidity and immaturity.

Ok. Deep breath. Stop talking about the morons and get back on topic. To use my favorite new legal phrase about how insufferable the hordes are, res ipsa loquitur. The thing speaks for itself.

My Nutrition class is pretty interesting, but much of it is stuff I’ve read over and over in magazines. It also bugs me how the teacher dumbs down everything. When she gave our most recent assignment, she spent more time assuring us "guys, it won’t take more than ten minutes, tops" than she did really explaining it.

Our Business Management class is another kettle of fish. It reminds me so much... too much... of the various management and leadership workshops I’ve been forced to go to while out in the working world. A lot of talk, a lot of forced participation, very little meat and bones substance. The instructor strikes me as someone who has been doing corporate workshops for years and knows that he’s not going to get through to the brats and so is just going through the motions.

Except for one thing. He calls on me All. The. Time.

Legolas (yes, my beloved baker buddy is back, much to my relief and delight) jokingly said "I feel like telling him, ‘hey, she’s single!’" and Mandilicious, another baking friend, observed "it’s your own fault, because you always answer with something intelligent," but it’s really getting on my nerves.

On Thursday, in fact, he was making some comment about something and suddenly gestured at me and said, "[Pirate], go ahead." I frowned and asked "Why?" He claimed that I "looked like I had something to say." I shook my head and replied "No, I’m just listening attentively, unlike other people."

The hordes gave a collective snicker, but at least he didn’t call on me for the rest of class.

And finally, we drew the short straw as a group and have the same teacher for both our Cost Control and Purchasing Food Class and our Menu Development Class. I’m sure he’s a nice guy, but he really should just retire already. I suspect he was eligible to do so about 20 years ago.

The man takes points off for everything, including if we don’t have 1.5 line spacing in our typed assignments (who on earth even uses 1.5 spacing?) and if, on quizzes, when asked to define a term we do anything less than regurgitate exactly the words he gave us.

I’m actually very interested in both topics, and I think the material itself is useful for someone thinking of opening her own place one day, but damn. Teach the course and don’t use it as an autocratic power trip.

That said, I feel I can’t ding him too much, because he does do more than the other teachers to keep the hordes in line, threatening to take points off when, for example, the girls violate dress code by wearing open-toe shoes (heaven forbid!).

So, yeah, if you detect a little frustration about my current classes, teachers and the hordes that constitute the majority of my classmates, it’s certainly there. I like the material itself in each class, however (except for BizManagement, which is just a load of bollocks), and I feel the classes are of value for that reason.

That said, I can’t wait to get back into the bakeshop (I will in mid-June) and get my hands on some marzipan.

For educational purposes only, you understand.

Feelin' Cheffy

Ok, ok, so enough about triathlons and the world’s greatest dog. Here’s a post about food.


Last weekend, I realized I still had most of a bottle of some fat-free "Cinnamon Hazelnut" non-dairy creamer that I’d bought just out of curiosity to try in my coffee. Yuck. I had to get rid of it, and not in my coffee, nor am I capable of wasting food. So I tried making crepes with it (I was out of milk).


The crepes themselves were more pancake-like than crepey, but the taste was ok, if a little dry. Wiley liked them.




The only reason I’m posting the lame photo I took of them here is because the filling and sauce I made for them were crazytasty. I peeled and chopped two Gala apples and sauteed them in a 1/2 oz. or so of butter, just so they wouldn’t stick. Then I added in, about a tablespoon at a time, Applejack and dark rum, alternating between the two and letting them reduce before adding more. Scrumptious. For the sauce I just mixed a little candied ginger spread with, yeah, Applejack and dark rum and cooked it down.


The result: not too sweet, very appley and with just a little ginger kick, plus the rummy goodness one must expect from a pirate.


Also last weekend, I made a couple Gordon Ramsay recipes. One was his "Show-off Ribeye for 8," though I scaled it down and only made it for "1+1," as in one me plus one very eager dog.


It. Kicked. Ass.


It was possibly the best piece of meat I’ve ever eaten (I used grass-fed beef that I’d bought, frozen, a couple weeks earlier at Trader Joe’s). It was ridiculously easy, too. I didn’t take a picture, and I’m not posting the recipe because it’s copyrighted and all, but if you can get your hands on the April issue of the British food magazine Olive, check it out.


I’m also not posting the recipe because I consider it my new secret "show-off" entree weapon. If you come to dinner and I want to impress you, that’s what you’re getting...


With seared scallops for a starter.


Ramsay did seared scallops for a starter on one of The F Word episodes, and it looked so tasty and easy that I had to try it. I found out at the last minute that I didn’t have curry powder, so I substituted my own special spice blend, as well as changed the garnish, so I consider the recipe "mine" enough to post it here, including photo with haphazard plating (hey, it was for me and Wiley... I'll do a fantastic plating when I'm getting paid for it, you know?).




I blanched some haricots verts (again, frozen from Trader Joe’s, but damn if they aren’t tasty... and cheap!) and made a dressing of sweet mustard, fromage blanc and vodka. In retrospect, I should have added something like capers to the dressing, as it wasn’t quite "finished," but I held back as I wasn’t sure what the scallops would taste like and had to make the dressing before I cooked them.


The scallops themselves I patted dry and dipped in a blend of one part kosher salt to one part dulce pimenton and one part hot pimenton (both pimentons being a fancy cheffy spice that my friend Shorewoodian sent me... no, it is not pimento spelled wrong. And get your hands on some if you can. Very tasty). I dusted off the excess and then put them in a hot pan with olive oil (the oil itself was almost at smoking point... because we all know never to put food in a pan without heating the oil first, right? I only ask because I’ve seen it done, by classmates, no less.). They were about a minute on each side and didn’t burn, despite what you may be thinking from the photo. The pimenton got a little darker and crusty, that’s all.


The pimenton added a really nice, slightly smoky earthiness to the scallops, which were perfectly cooked, if I don’t say so myself. I give all the credit to Ramsay, anyway. Well, most of the credit.


Okay, a modest amount.

Hwaet, Cerdic!

I finally got my bike on Wednesday, opting for the aluminum frame over the steel, which meant I had to wait a couple extra days for the guy to get it in stock.

Like Dr. Virago, I enjoy naming things. I also felt that, by giving my bike a name, I might not hate biking so much and maybe, just maybe, we’d bond a little.

After much contemplation, I named the bike Cerdic.

If you have never seen the recent Jerry Bruckheimer version of King Arthur, with Clive Owen in the title role and Keira Knightly as Guinevere, well, you’re really missing out. It is a dreadful movie, and it made me seriously question Clive as crush-worthy (he just.... stands... there.).

However, it is terrific to watch with snarky friends and pick apart, especially friends who know anything about that period of Britian and/or martial arts. Or basic logic. (Question: If Arthur and his knights have been posted to Hadrian’s Wall for 15 years and charged with protecting Rome’s interests, why are they completely unaware that a super-wealthy Roman family whose son is a protege of the pope just happen to be living several miles north, in Woad lands? Why do they need a guy straight off the boat from Rome to tell them this, as well as to mention that Saxons are invading from the north? What do they do all day, sit around the round table and eat Spam a lot? Just asking...)

I do like Knightly’s Guinevere, who is more ambiguous and Macchiavellian than the usual damsel. I especially like that she’s a vicious, bloodthirsty fighter in the climactic battle scene, even though they dressed her in a leather bikini.

But the best thing about "King Arthur" is the main bad guy... Saxon invader Cerdic. Stellan Skarsgard’s performance is hilarious (intentionally so, I believe) as the barbarian badass who’s just bored to death with his day job and really tired of killing people who don’t deserve it. Not that they don’t deserve to die, they do, but, you know, it’s just a little beneath him to be slaughtering people who don’t even put up much of a fight.

His tag line, begun with a weary sigh, is "Kill them all. Burn everything."

Yeah, this is the guy (center) I want to name my bike after. I feel they have much in common. They’re big and blond (though the bike’s official color scheme is "Sand with Black") and aren't the fastest.

I hope my Cerdic will be as relentless and steady as its cinematic namesake. Also, movieCerdic is not prone to panic, and I hope I can say the same of my bike, since I am prone to panic while cycling, and it would be nice if one of us was not teetering on the edge during the 20K we’ll be together on race day.

At the Danskin Triathlon, when you pass someone you’re supposed to shout encouragement, and the person being passed is supposed to do the same (recommended phrases include "Looking good!" "Stay strong!" and the dreaded "You go, girl!"). I felt kind of goofy and so not me doing that last time. I’ll be doing it again, but this time with a secret smile.

Because in my head, I’ll be thinking, yeah... you know it.

Kill them all. Burn everything.

Police (Dog) Brutality

I'll write more about Cookin' School and food soon, promise, but first, an ultra-brief Wiley aside.

Today, as we were returning to the car after walkies through the woods at a local park, we passed two cop cars and two cop SUVs, all parked in a row. The cops were all hanging around outside of them, clearly not working too hard. As we neared, just as I saw every vehicle had "K9 Unit" on its door, Wiley sniffed the air and started barking like crazy.

The vehicle windows were all cracked but not actually opened and for that I'm thankful, because suddenly there were four enormous (I swear they were part bear) German Shepherds roused from an apparent post-training exercise nap, all of them barking and doing their best to escape the vehicles and go all Rodney King on Wiley. They were so aggressive that they were actually making the cars and trucks rock back and forth and side to side.

It was kind of scary. The cops looked embarrassed, Wiley just barked more (dumbass) and I started walking faster, dragging him behind me saying "those are some dogs you do not want to pick a fight with, baby."

Yikes!