Perfect Paella?

I’ll admit it. I’ve never made paella before. In fact, I’ve never eaten it. I’ve said it a lot. “Paella” Pie-ay-uh. It’s fun to say. Paella, Paella, Paella. But I have no idea what it’s supposed to taste like.

Paella was originally a laborer’s meal. It’s very rustic and unrefined, which is what makes it so charming. It was generally cooked over an open fire in the fields eaten with wooden spoons straight out of the pan. Bones discarded to the middle of the pan. Eat the meat first, save the rice for last. The rice was considered the treat. The tastiest part. It originated in Valencia, Spain…and there isn’t much seafood flopping around in the fields, so the first and original paellas were generally made with rabbit,duck, and snails, and chicken for those who were well-off. Now however, paella is commonly associated with seafood and is eaten all around the world.
Paella was popular because it was usually made in large quantities and kept well to be eaten over the course of a couple days.

The method:
The meat is fried first(be very careful about the dark chicken meat), followed by the seafood, then the vegetables. You’re trying to get all of the flavor from all of the ingredients into the rice.
When the vegetables, meat and fish are cooked (this is called a sofrita), the paprika should go in and be mixed through, quickly, to avoid burning, (which would give it a bitter flavor). Then the rice should be mixed in, then the stock should be quickly stirred in. From that point forward, it shouldn’t be stirred at all, because the grains of rice should stay separate. To stop it from sticking though, you can shake the pan. Towards the end of the cooking, stop shaking it, because you do want it to stick then, in order to have a thin, crispy layer of toasted rice on the bottom, known as soccarat (the most delicious bit of all). Take it off the heat before the rice is totally cooked through, and cover the pan in tinfoil, leaving it to cook under its own steam for 5-10 minutes.

My paella didn’t turn out ideally tonight. I was too concerned about seasoning, and I tried to stir it gently, but the rice still game out a bit mushy and it was definitely missing the soccarat. It was decent though, for a first timer. I’ll definitely have to try this again, perhaps mixing up the recipe a little bit.

PAELLA ESPANIA
12 servings
1 each frying chicken, cut in 12
pieces
salt, to taste
black pepper, to taste
1 teaspoon dried oregano
¼ cup olive oil
2 each Spanish chorizo
2 cloves garlic, crushed
½ each onion, diced
2 each tomatoes, peeled, seeded, and
finely chopped
1 pinch sweet paprika
2 cups Spanish rice
2 teaspoons saffron threads
6 cups chicken stock
2 each lobster tails, split
1 pounds calamari (squid), cleaned,
and cut in rings
1 pound jumbo shrimp
1 dozen mussels, cleaned
½ cup sweet peas, frozen and thawed
1 each lemon wedges
2 each pimentos, cut in strips
1. Rinse the chicken pieces and pat dry. Season all over with salt, black pepper,
and oregano. Heat the oil in a paella pan or wide skillet. Brown the chicken on
all sides, when nearly cooked through, add the chorizo links and brown.
2. Remove the chicken and sausage from the pan. Cut the sausages into slices
and set aside. Drain out excess oil but don’t clean the pan. Make a sofrito by
sauteing the garlic, onion, and tomatoes, cook until the mixture caramelizes a bit
and the flavors meld. Season with salt, black pepper, and paprika.
3. Add the rice, stirring to coat the grains. Steep the saffron in 1/4-cup hot water
for 5 minutes then stir it into the rice.
4. Add the stock/water and simmer for 10 minutes, gently moving the pan
around so the rice cooks and absorbs evenly. Do not cover or constantly stir
like risotto. Add the shellfish and the reserved chicken and sausage. Simmer,
without stirring, until the rice is al dente and the mussels have opened. (Do not eat
any mussels that do not.)
5. Scatter the peas on top and continue to cook until the liquid is absorbed. The
ideal paella has a toasted rice bottom called socarrat. Allow to rest off the heat
for 5 minutes before serving. Garnish with lemon wedges and strips of pimento.

Everyone’s dishes tonight were pretty great. The other half of my group made the Eggplant and Manchego Filled Chile Relleno which was a huge hit. I’m a sucker for anything with roasted peppers really, so I knew I’d be a goner from the beginning. I plan on making this recipe for friends and family in South Dakota as soon as I go back for a visit.

Unfortunately, the picture uploader for this stupid thing won’t let me do any captions on here. I’m seriously considering moving to a different host. Bear with me for now. There a picture of me..and the other Jessi. And Jessi doing the super nerdy thumbs up next to the poblano peppers. And me, eating a squid…mmm..tentacles. There’s ratatouille, wild rice pilaf, eggplant parmesean, zucchini and porcini mushroom risotto.

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Vichyssoise.

All in favor of cold soup, say aye!
*silence*

Okay, lighten up.

I’ve started my vegetable starch class and one of our homework assignments was to make vichyssoise, blog about it, and bring it to class.

If you don’t know what vichyssoise is…hang on, I’m about to enlighten you.
……
………*anticipation*…..

*****scanning various wikipedia resources******……..

Hahaha. Just kidding, I’m an aspiring culinary professional. Of course I know what vichyssoise is! I’ve known about it for ages( a whole 6 weeks ago!)

Vichyssoise is a cold soup made with potato, leek,onion, pureed to a smooth consistency, and finished with cream. It’s quite delightful. It’s basically a smooth potato soup that has been chilled. I used basic russet potatoes, but you can get adventurous and try purple peruvians, which was what I had initially planned but decided it would be better to get through the 5 lb sack of russet I’d just bought first.

I didn’t use a specific recipe, just modified whatever was in my head from the last time I made it in soups/sauces class so I apologize if it’s a little incomprehensible.

1. Saute 2 sliced leeks(white and light green parts only) and 1 small chopped onion in about 2 Tbsp of unsalted butter until translucent.
2. Add 1 1/2 cups of thinly sliced potatoes with 2 1/2 cups of chicken stock. Simmer for 3o minutes.
3. Season to taste. I used what I had-some dried thyme, marjoram. Of course, salt and pepper.
4. Puree in small batches until smooth.
5. Add cream. I added about a cup. You can add more cream or stock to accomplish desired consistency.
6. Adjust seasonings.
7. Chill, can be garnished with chives( although Ben suggests a carved green pepper sculpturine, bananas, salmon, a stuffed lobster, or perhaps a pinch of cat hair).

What a delightful young man!

“Screw chives, I will garnish this soup with a laser beam.”

Stuffed lobster apparently won the garnishing argument.

Here’s a vichyssoise made with the purple peruvians.

I sit here in my too comfortable bed surrounded by piles of downy pillows, Ingrid Michaelson’s voice trailing in the background, a fluffy cat curled into the side of my leg. How could I not be inspired to write?
I’m going to try to make up for my lack of enthusiasm the past couple of months in this post.
The winter quarter finally ended. The snow melted, but then(because it’s Nebraska), we got dumped on again. But still, it melted. There’s hope.
I walked away with three A’s. Not that grades matter in this industry. As a person who always threw herself wholeheartedly into the world of academia, it’s a concept difficult to grasp. Ultimately, it’s not about the grades, but the learning process. It’s not like studying 14 hours for a physiology exam so that I can forget it as soon as I drop my pencil at the end of the test.
First quarter was euphoric. I was discovering a passion I didn’t realize was there. Exhaustion couldn’t touch me. Nothing could, really. Besides my own self doubt. Whether it be because of the dreadfully cold weather, my ridiculously out of whack thyroid hormones, the staph infection I caught over Christmas break, or perhaps my body just finally letting me know it does have limitations, this quarter was not as happy. The only happy part of it was the fact that it did finally come to an end. I feel guilty saying it, but I began to dread going to class. I still went. But I went from leaping out of bed for class, to crawling. I felt like I slipped into a mini depression.
As you’ve noticed, I didn’t take a lot of pictures from my Soups and Sauces class. I didn’t post many recipes. But I can tell you something I learned.
It’s not always about perfection. I think this is what got me down. I was constantly searching for a perfect outcome, and if it wasn’t, it felt like all was for naught. Last quarter, I had read so many Michael Ruhlman books. In the Soul of a Chef, he talks about Thomas Keller’s French Laundry , how everything from the tiles on the floor to bottle of clarified butter to the gallons of veal stock, was the definition of perfection. I realize that striving to be like Thomas Keller is good, but he’s got decades of experience on me. I know that there are really no grounds for comparison between us at this point, so why do I feel like an epic fail if my fine brunoise of a carrot doesn’t look like his?
You spend your whole life hearing people tell you that striving to be the best at something is a desirable character trait. And it is. It encourages continual growth and improvement.
But when it all comes down to it, sometimes, you’ve gotta just step back, take a deep breath, and let the shit go. Sometimes you might have to cry hopelessly on your kitchen floor with a bottle of Riesling over 3 pans of ruined muffins (insert recent personal failure here), but eventually you’ll learn to just let it go.
I used to think the best people in life were the ones who were at the very top. That had all the shiny achievements on the wall. The valedictorian of the everyday workforce. The reality is, those people had failures too. But they picked themselves up off the sugar and flour dusted floor, did the dishes, went to bed, and tried to make muffins all over again in the morning.

I’m still getting there.

Froggie went a courtin’.

As I took my trendy self down the road and through the doors of Whole Foods, I was reminded of where I come from.

Nebraska has been uncommonly warm for February. We’re talking 45-60 degrees. People are getting out their bikinis. It’s one of my favorite times of the year. People ask me what my favorite season is, and I generally tell them Fall, but I enjoy the transitions. The way the air starts to smell differently. The dark overhang of winter starts to ebb, people begin to air out their homes. The familiar sound of birds chirping outside the window returns. Right now, I fear that this is only a teasing session…but perhaps I’m only skeptical because I moved here from South Dakota…where it would most likely snow on my birthday in April.

Back to Whole Foods. So, as I was perusing the produce (winter vegetables, by the way, are my favorite part of winter- humble,dirty, ugly things that have no way of disguising the fact that they were ripped right out of the earth….Celery root, rutabaga, parsnip, beets. Don’t judge them by their outward appearance. Give them a chance), I passed the floral section. They were selling daffodils for about 6 bucks a bunch. I had to laugh. Because, in about a month, my mother will have them popping up everywhere all over her farm. They will be in every room of the house.

Colors and smells always evoke the strongest memories for me. Those daffodils took me bag to the mossy, damp scent of springtime in Jackson County, Tennessee. Sometimes I won’t go back home for over 2 years at a time, but I never forget what Tennessee smells like.
I encountered lilac oil on this adventure as well. And I was transported back to the summers. Lilacs everywhere. Overflowing mason jars on rustic wooden tables. Supper at 6. Tomatoes so ripe, the were exploding with redness. Watermelon. Green beans. Cucumbers.
I’d sit with my grandmother in her living room, each of us with a half of a watermelon in our lap, armed with a spoon and salt shaker. Juice would drip all over my denim overall shorts. We’d watch the Chicago Bulls together on Saturday nights. She was a big Michael Jordan fan.
Grandpa would be in the garage, picking on his banjo. I wasn’t as close to him as I was my grandma, but there was one thing we did bond on, and that was music. He taught me to play the harmonica. How to sing the harmony to “You Are My Sunshine”, and my grandmother’s favorite hymn, “I’ll Fly Away.” Then there was that stupid, stupid song…”Froggie Went a Courtin’ “. With a shit eatin’ grin on his face, he’d finish some nice little ditty, and BAM! You were transported straight to the Appalachian moutains and no, you didn’t get to take your shoes or indoor plumbing with you. It makes me laugh just to think about it. Sometimes I wish he and I could have conversations now. Now that I’m older. I wish he could’ve been there when I loved music more than everything in my whole life. I think he would’ve understood. We would spend hours in his music room, stumbling along melodies on the piano, picking out chords on a guitar.
My grandmother passed away when I was 8, my grandfather when I was 12. After she died, I became morbidly obsessed with sleeping in her old night gowns and with one of her tacky glass blown objects under my pillow at night. I would end my prayers every night with “Tell Grandma I love her.”
Grandpa followed suit like the experts predict and began to go downhill. Alzheimers. Terrible, terrible disease. The best thing you can do is try to find opportunities to laugh. I say that after working with however many dementia patients I’ve worked with now. I wish I had known that back then when I was 12, but of course when the man you used to know and love, who’s lap you sat on at family reunions and sang church hymns with, tells you to stop calling him “Grandpa” because he doesn’t who you are, it’s hard to wrap your head around.

I’m almost 21 now. He passed away nearly 9 years ago. Those daffodils and lilac oil make it seem like yesterday. I realize this is all over the place, but that’s how my brain has been working. I’m all nouns and adjectives. No structure.
Lilacs, daffodills, Sunday morning breakfast, crisp flannel shirts, stubbly skin, vanilla aftershave, easter baskets, toe tapping, rocking chairs, dueling banjos, musty church hymnals, the click of tape recorders, falling asleep on the carpet by grandma’s hospital bed, baby lotion, the groan of medical machines in her living room, being called “Jessie”.

It’s crazy how you forget, and then it all just hits you in the face so hard, you have to grip the grocery cart handle extra tight just to prevent falling backwards and not making a scene.

For the moments we stand infinite.

I had intentions of writing a blog about pork marsala, creme anglaise, and chile oil but other thoughts pushed their way to the front of my mind. This past week, I’ve closed my eyes and seen words that encompass life and death fluttering on the backdrop of my lids.
Everyone has those jarring moments where they realize, maybe if even for only one second, that they are not eternal. This point may turn out to be one big cliche’ but I’m okay with that.
Tuesday night, I was driving home from class. I was high off the fact that my final that I had been stressing over all week was over. I was smiling, spacing out to some off the wall Sufjan Stevens song, when my eyes caught the glimmer of flashing red and blue lights at the intersection ahead. An ambulance. A fire truck. A 3 car pile up. A woman being carried on a stretcher. Another crumpled in the damp street heaving sobs so drastic, an entire ocean could fall into them. There were people on cell phones with disconcerted, glazed expressions.
My immediate reaction still, is to revert back to my child-like tendencies and pray to the God that I doubt everyday, that they will all be okay.
A policeman directs the traffic through the intersection. Cars moving one by one around the mess, continuing with their trip to Wal-mart for facial cream, socks, or perhaps some dish detergent. I’m sure they’re thinking about it too. But they might forget about it once they sit down on their leather couch to watch their latest DVR’d episode of Glee. I sure wish I could.

I work in a hospital. That being said, I have become somewhat desensitized to the through of someone’s life coming to a close. Somewhat.

I remember the first lady I ever took care of at Good Samaritan. Her name was Mary and her body was taken over with Parkinson’s Disease. I loved her, and she loved me….if not just for sole fact that she didn’t have to waste her precious energy in telling me exactly how she liked the bathroom sink set up to brush her teeth, or her shoes place directly in front of her nightstand.

But one night, Mary couldn’t quite catch her breath. The Parkinsons practically paralyzed her breathing and the more scared she became, the more it constricted. She died that night, right in the midst of our nightly routine. That was over 3 years ago. I remember sobbing hopelessly in the employee bathroom.

After that point, I’ve witnessed many lives pass without a single rolling tear. Unfortunately, I know I can’t even name off every person I’vve cared for whose life has ended in my presence.

Working in this hospital is different. I see new people every day. I head codes being called over the intercom or I might actually be in the room for one. And I do the same thing I did at the intersection, “Dear God, please let it all be okay.”

At this point, I realize I could never spend a lifetime in this profession. Some nurses and doctors may come off cld and frigid, but it’s generally within good reason. They’ve seen a whole hell of a lot. They still have hearts, just more intensely guarded.

I may wear a white coat in my future, but the most credit I will ever deserve is for the enrichment of others’ lives, not the saving of them. And I’m perfectly okay with that. I’m okay with being the girl that whispers, “Dear God, please let them be okay.”

Crazy, Crazy,Crazy, Insane.

Categorizing time into days, weeks, months, or years hasn’t been a struggle for me in the past. However, as I grow older and my schedule is more full(much much more full), I have a tendency to just plow through time periods without any sense of season, or timeline. It’s really a wonder I don’t miss appointments or classes or just not show up for work. Ok, perhaps I’m exaggerating a little because I was aware of the Christmas season (but in order for me not to be, I’d have to lock myself in my apartment and never even let myself peer out the window.) and I’m not wearing shorts in January. But you get the point. For most, let’s say “normal” people, they have a 5 day work week that generally consists of something Monday through Friday. They go out on the weekends or relax with family. Sunday might be church. For me, I never quite know when a week ends and starts. I just keep going.

Last week feels like it just happened yesterday, and my head has such a hard time wrapping itself around timeframes. I quite literally roll out of bed without knowing the date. If it weren’t for having to ask confused patients at work what the day, month, and year is, …I’d probably be quite lost myself. For the past 7 months (wow…7 months?), I’ve had a good handle on things. I felt like the energizer bunny, never stopping. I kept wondering if I had a limit or point when I would break.

This week, I was bent but not quite cracked in two.

This is what stinks about trying to write when whatever I want to happen happened 2 or 3 weeks ago. Other exciting things happen that I decide I want to write about and then I overlook the other, and then exciting things just keep happening and I never record them, and then once I have a chance to write, ….AMNESIA.

I remember something about scrambling to get a research paper done, there were job interviews, a bistro shadow, a puke fest on Tuesday(which was a terrible day to miss since it was practice for Hollandaise practical), work, work, work, …work, duck….MMMM….duck. Tapenade. Perform hollandaise practical for first time ever…not doing too bad until I whisked into oblivion until the sauce was cold(being overly cautious) and grabbing hot plate out of the warmer, spooning the sauce onto plate…BAM, it breaks. And duh, of course it would break. But of course I didn’t even consider that at the time. Not enough acid. Not one of my finer moments in class.

Wednesday night, Matt rolled into Omaha with an early flight to Denver in the morning. We talked for 20 minutes before he quite literally passed out on my living room floor. I retreated to my bedroom to read Barbara Kingsolver’s “Animal, Vegetable, Mineral” for four hours since I’m on a night schedule. He got up at 4, we talked for another 15 minutes, and he rushed away to the snowy slopes of the Colorado Rockies. It was like there was someone pressing “fast forward” on my life for about 3 weeks. And now, here I sit, 4 am, with still yet, a ton of homework to do, but life slowed down. This is what is magical about snow days. Especially when you’re an almost 21 year old, in college. You feel like you’re back in elementary school sleeping on the plastic mats. I haven’t had a day to just *breathe* in months. And here we are, ….because of Nebraska’s terrible climate, I got 2. But of course, didn’t get anything accomplished(well, I made cookies and tapenade…and I did get most of a power point presentation done and my analysis report, but still, not much compared to what I could have). And I suppose that’s ok.

I also went out on a date. Which, I was entirely hesitant to do…first of all because it was a Sunday…which meant, I would have worked 12 hours on Saturday and would have to work another 12 hours the next…which leaves 12 hours to sleep, eat, bathe, clean, …whatever. I did not want to insert a *date* in there. Plus, as many of you know, I’ve become somewhat withdrawn. I like my lonely, quiet life for the most part. Sometimes, I do want a bunch of friends around me(I have great ones)….but then there’s the majority where I just want to come home and read. If there’s time to read, that is. I was hesitant because I just figured this guy was a total creep. I mean, with my experience in the last 2 years, I have not had the best luck. And it’s a funny thing, because Nick and I were just discussing how I seem to attract these weirdos. Whether they are illiterate, crappy beer drinking nascar fanatics, to pretentious saxophone playing assholes, to cocky paramedics in Switzerland, to horny Jamaicans with a girlfriend, to clingy, over analyzing IT guys(I will not elaborate on that situation)….I have not had any luck.

I was also hesitant just because I am extremely uncomfortable with myself, and don’t like putting myself out there for intense examination. And the thing is, maybe the guy isn’t thinking about every little thing I’m thinking about like trying not to bite my lip, trying to prevent awkward silences, trying not to talk too fast, trying not to get too excited and gesture with my hands, trying not to hyperventilate and die right there in the pseudo-trendy coffee shop.

But I went, because I’m trying to live by my corny new year’s resolution of not caring what someone else thinks of me. Guess what! It went well. And obviously, I am still alive. And now, I have someone to get sushi with. And he wasn’t a creep. And he’s not stupid. And he’s cute. And I haven’t laughed this much in a long time. Or met anyone that could quite keep up with my constant use of verbal irony. It’s refreshing to say the least. Cheers to meeting new people! And cheers to life slowing down just enough so I can appreciate it a little.

The Rules

The Rules:

1. Pay Attention- Complete situational awareness is the critical element for success in the kitchen.

2. On time is on time.

3. Spread love- Working in a kitchen is something we cannot do with out support from others. Express appreciation to everyone, treat everyone with respect. Make sure everyone feels like they are a part of the team. Not everyone is perfect forgive yourself and others for their mistakes. Help a brother or sister out.

4. No short cuts- French the drumie, scrape the fish carcase, stir the eggs before adding in your sugar. There is always time for perfection in every aspect of what we do as a team, as a culinarian, as a mentor, or as joe blow.

5. Salt is your friend- Without this rock we are nothing. It enhaces everything we do, not just at the end of cooking but throughout every step. Season every ingredient.

6. Mise en Place is a way of life- It saves us all of those valuable seconds that we require to perfect our dishes. Sure it is time consuming but if we don’t Mise then we are just wasting our time.

7. Use only great ingredients- Only the greatest and freshest ingredients create the greatest and most fulfilling plates

. 8. Hustle- Put out eachtime, everytime, all year round. This defintion comes directly from Answers.com “1. To move or act energetically and rapidly: We hustled to get dinner ready on time.” Never do slowly what you could do quickly. To be on the competition team is to have an appreciation for things moving at high velocity. Be one of them.

9. Look sharp, Work Clean- We are always being judged, always. When you look sharp you act sharp. Every practice should be treated like nationals: perfect uniforms, shaven, necherchiefs tied perfectly. Make sure that your workstation and stovetop look just as sharp, organization throughout mise, on the table, on the stove, in the oven…

10. Taste everything- You can only tell that you haven’t added enough pepper after you taste your farce.
11. Be heard- Be heard through your awesome food as well as your vocal cords. At the same be heard at not being heard, chaos is loud. Be heard, don’t scream. Yes, chef.
12. Adapt- If your potatos aren’t cooked all the way, don’t start over, keep cooking them. There is always anotherway, be it unorthadox, to the finish line.
13. Engage-. Engage the gears in your soul to push two more hours to finish glazing the cold platter.
14. Commit- Cooking is fun, hard, educational, and demanding if you say your in, your in.

15.

Edit: A little hint, there are 2 rules that aren’t written down. It ruins the point if I tell you why, but I’m going to tell you anyway.

Rule # 0:” Get your head out of your ass.” -Chef O’Malley

and…Rule # 15. : Be humble.

But writing “Be Humble” down somewhat contradicts the significance because if you actually have to write down be humble to remember it, well, you aren’t really being humble.