How to Do What You Love (When You Don’t Feel Like It)

A couple of months ago I said goodbye to the oil and gas business in order to focus on my two loves: cooking and writing. And so far, other than the lack of cash, I am happy with that choice. Even when I am bone tired, frequently outside my comfort zone and working very hard for free, I feel satisfied.

So imagine my surprise when I found myself procrastinating heading into the restaurant Friday afternoon for another chance to live the dream.

I am so tired. Can’t I just sit here on the couch and read a book? I asked myself silently. I need to take a break. That thought quickly escalated into more existential analysis: Why am I doing this? What is my big plan? Shouldn’t I have a plan? Do I even want to do this?

These thoughts followed me out the door, on the road and into the kitchen, where I uncharacteristically showed up a full 30 minutes later than normal for my shift. Passing the chef, I pasted on a smile, set down my knives and put on an apron. No time for angst. Time to get to work.

“Miss Jessica,” he said cheerfully. “I have a special app that I want you to be in charge of tonight. I want you to make it, assemble it and come up with your own presentation and description.”

Secret ingredient: fig. One of my favorites. Stuffing: goat cheese, honey and thyme. Awesome. Packaging: prosciutto. More things should arrive prosciutto wrapped.

Feeling excited, I began my work, but as the hours passed, excitement became irritation and anxiety. In a packed and tiny kitchen, you are often in people’s way or pulled off task to meet other requests. The frequent interruptions and the pressure of creating a dish on the spot were not sitting well with my already resistant psyche.

To my horror, I actually told Chef I wasn’t given enough time to prepare and that I didn’t know what I was doing. Understandably, neither of those comments went over very well, and soon after, I presented my plate to the Chef, bracing for the worst.

The dish was not a disaster. The critique was fair, and I received a valuable lesson on how to manage space on a plate. With two small adjustments, we had an appetizer ready for service. (In fact, it sold out that evening.)

Still my sour mood persisted as we suited up, and I took my place next to Chef on the line. Despite my efforts to hide it, my lack of sunshine was peeking through. Less than an hour into the evening, he asked what was up.

“I am okay. In a bad mood tonight, but not sure why,” I said.

“Go home,” he said abruptly. “I don’t need anyone in my kitchen in a bad mood.”

This pronouncement jolted me to my senses. Suddenly, I wanted very much to be there and back peddled sufficiently to avoid banishment. And thank goodness for that moment because all of the noise in my head could not silence the truth: I want to be here.

And once I wanted to be there, the night immediately improved.

We all have those days when our best intentions meet with inertia or resistance. We hit snooze. We drag our feet. We call in sick.

Even when we do what we love, we aren’t going to love doing it every day. Some days, the running shoes stay in the closet, the Rosetta Stone lesson stays unopened and you order takeout instead of trying that new recipe.

Other days, you power through a bad run or spend a day screwing things up in a kitchen, and can only take comfort in the fact you put in the time (however disappointing) in spite of your own efforts to sabotage yourself.

The good days, the bad days and all the days in between are all part of living the dream. One day is just one day.

Maybe, like me, you sometimes forget how much you actually do love what you are doing. And if you are lucky, life will (gently) kick you in the head and remind you. Allow those “I want to be here” realizations to carry you through the days when you aren’t so sure. On a particularly underwhelming day, you may be pleasantly surprised by how content you are.

Do We Really Need Another Food Blog?

For the past two months and change, I have been staging (read: chef apprenticing without pay) at a French restaurant a few days a week. Countless friends have suggested that I blog about my experiences, and my answer is always, “Yeah, I should do that.”

Yet, here I am 24 working days and 178 hours into my professional kitchen experiment, and I haven’t written one word on my blog.

In fact, I haven’t touched this blog in ages. I have come up with a number of reasons (read: excuses) for why this is: I am too busy. I would rather spend my time on paid writing projects. I am too burned out to write for myself after writing for hire.

But the answer I keep coming back to is, Why would anyone care what I have to say?

We reached the social media oversaturation point a long time ago. Now everyone is “positioning themselves” with a social media strategy to launch their brand, their product, their book to the public so they can make it big, or at least make some money. Don’t I want to write the next Julie & Julia or at least release a cookbook?

When it comes to food blogs in particular, we have an abundance of supply and a fair amount of demand. Not only does every food magazine release its list of top food blogs I need to be following, but top food blogs make their own top food blog lists.

Oh, I think to myself, I better bookmark all of these so I can never look at them again. I have enough on my schedule every day without homework assigned by the editors of Bon Appétit.

Should I contribute to this food blog fetish? I am not sure. Is my apprenticeship boring? Not in the least. Am I learning things that might be interesting to other cooks out there? Most definitely. Perhaps most of all, am I having fun? Hell yes.

And … so what?

What do I have to add to the existing discourse of the foodiesphere when I would say there is already plenty being said? Who wants to read what I have to say?

Then I realized I am asking the wrong question. What I need to ask myself is, Do I have something I need to say? Not do I have anything to say because we all probably say far more than we need to in a given day. More like, what is that something that keeps pushing to the surface of my thoughts despite my repeated efforts to dismiss it? What do I need to say?

If I say what must be said, then that is enough. And if I am lucky, a few readers will think it was worth saying.

Why I Run: A Novice Runner's Manifesto

I am not a runner. And by that I mean, I did not fall in love with running at an early age, compete in high school track meets, graduate to marathons, or establish a lifelong pattern of daily running.

I restarted my running “habit” a little more than a year ago, though I still have had my stops and starts since. In fact, on most days I will admit that I don’t actually enjoy running all that much. I don’t deal well with discomfort—the hard pounding rattles my joints and aches my shins. For the first five or so minutes, I am acutely aware of every ache and twinge, the slight rub of my shoes on my heel or toe, the burn of my lungs or a complaining muscle.

I also find it difficult to breathe through my nose as directed because it seems to get immediately congested. And I must be chronically dehydrated despite guzzling down thermos after thermos of water, because I always feel thirsty.

Very few days are ideal running days in New Orleans. You have the uncomfortable stickiness of summer, even early in the morning or late in the evening. Or you have the suffocating humidity, the miserable rain. And of course, the bone chill when we actually have what passes for winter here.

If running is so miserable, why do I do it? Perhaps I like to punish myself, I’m an overachiever or I have lost my mind.

No—I am not out to prove myself or punish myself, and oxygen is still getting to my brain.

And yet non-running friends repeatedly ask me, “How can you do that? I hate running.” Or they warn me of its dangers or simply say, “Better you than me.”

So why do I run?

I run because there is a comfort in knowing my own two feet have the strength to carry me, first a mile, then two, and then maybe twelve.

For my first (and only) half marathon, I was injured and hadn’t trained properly because of it. I also had bronchitis. But a friend came into town to run with me, and I didn’t want to disappoint her. I wasn’t able to run the full 13.1, but I was able to run longer than I ever have before. And I still finished the race in time to receive a medal.

The experience was overwhelming—especially the realization that I was able to carry myself around the city on my own two (if blistered) feet. In fact, that day I ran to parts of town that I am often too lazy to drive to because they are “just so far away.”

I run because it puts me in tune with my body in ways I am usually not.

Experts talk about the “mind-body connection” but I think most of the time I am blissfully unaware of what my body tries to tell me. I ignore little aches and pains, am sometimes careless about my diet, or let stress build up without realizing it.

During a run, it is hard to ignore that I didn’t eat enough or eat right beforehand, that I didn’t drink enough water, stretch properly or get enough sleep. If my neck or shoulders are tense, I feel hunched and awkward during my run, or I may notice that my breathing is erratic if I am anxious or tired. This awareness has changed my runs, but more than that, it has improved my behavior when out of my running shoes.

I run because running isn’t gimmicky.

Although runners can accessorize with heart rate monitors, GPS trackers, iPods and other gadgets, all anyone really needs to run is a pair of running shoes and a place to run.

If the gym is closed, I can run around the block or at the park. Throw my shoes in a suitcase, and I can run even if I am on vacation. No special equipment, fad diet, workout guru or overly hyped DVD required.

My grandfather picked up a running habit as a teenager in the army and kept it for decades after. Running just slipped into his daily life without fanfare, but it is vivid in my childhood memories. I often conjure him up during my own difficult runs to remind myself of his no-nonsense approach.

I run because it’s ok to be a novice.

I have never excelled at group sports or really considered myself athletic. I know about as much about a weight room as I do about quantum physics. And I always forget which is overpronating and which is underpronating.

But that’s ok. Running is a sport of inclusion, not exclusion. You never know what friendship might blossom while sharing a path with a fellow runner who happens to keep the same pace as you.

There are expert competitive runners out there, but it isn’t required. If you choose to race, you will learn what not to do next time. I have been so touched by the great advice I have gotten along the way, not just from friends and loved ones, but from casual acquaintances eager to share their running passion.

I like to think of running like my first guitar lesson: You learn one or two chords, and you can strum out a tune even if you are never Van Halen. If you choose to race and graduate to foam rollers and gu, that’s great. But if you want to stick to the “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star” equivalent of running, that’s cool too.

I run because it changes my perspective and teaches me about myself.

Just being on foot makes you see the scenery differently—feel it differently. It engages more of the senses. You feel a rough stretch of road in your feet or a gentle misting from a nearby sprinkler, smell new asphalt mixed with the wafting fragrance of some nearby jasmine, or the dusty taste of the air just before the rain. Trees rustle, ducks talk and bikes whiz by.

If you allow yourself to become fully aware during your run, these little daily variations on a familiar street help keep it fresh and interesting. And if you leave a familiar path to explore new roads you are sure to discover something else you never knew was there.

For me, however, a lot of time is spent getting to know my own inner monologue. Often it comes up with reasons why I really don’t need to run another lap around the park because I’m tired or hurting or it may start raining. Sometimes my inner me is just bored and wonders why I am running in the first place. Other times it thinks I am fooling myself by pretending to be athletic, and it reminds me that some bodies are just not built to run.

The more discomfort I feel, the more chatter I hear. I am learning to distance myself from these inner pronouncements, and just observe and even develop compassion for that inner voice. I use the same technique I use in yoga class—breathe in, breathe out, focus on the breath, and be fully in the present moment. Accept this moment—and myself—exactly as I am now. Right now is enough. In these moments, running is like a meditation.

And every once in a while, on a sunny morning, looking at the blue sky with a light breeze against your back and your favorite song blasting, you might accidentally find you are enjoying five miles around the park.

Week Four: Timing Is Everything

The moment of truth ... at least so far: we had our food graded by our instructor in this week's class. Once again, we worked in teams (of four this time).

We had to prepare five dishes from recipes, and we had to prep them for a particular 5 minute window and plate them as though they were made for service.

Cooking to fit a particular window is far harder than I thought. We had too many dishes done too early, and fired (i.e., cooked) our fish way too early. Also, the group before us ran long, so our scheduled window came and went ... we ended up wrapping all of dishes in foil and putting them on the flattop (above the stoves) to try to keep them warm. This approach works for some things and not others.

Here was the menu and a few things we learned from each dish:

Roast Cornish Game Hen with Wild Rice Stuffing (Richard)

First, I have to brag on Richard here. His cornish hen was PERFECTLY cooked and looked beautiful. Just before he cooked it, he realized that he forgot a couple of ingredients for the wild rice and had to empty it out, mix in the ingredients and re-stuff. But it still looked and tasted great. However, he forgot to untruss the hen before serving it to the instructor. Not a good idea. Also, wild rice takes FOREVER to cook.

Country Braised Chicken (me)

The recipe I used was actually quite good. The instructor liked the flavor of my sauce (basically a pureed reduction of the braising veggies and liquid with a little additional seasoning), and he thought the chicken looked and tasted good. I ALMOST got in trouble for puttting all four drumsticks on the plate, but saved myself by telling him I cooked it for family style service. He also liked the toasted almond garnish. HOWEVER, he thought I overgarnished (the chopped parsley was described as "yard clippings") and he didn't like that all of the sauce was buried underneath the chicken where the diner couldn't see it. Oh, and the plate (and dish) weren't hot enough.

Seared Pork Loin with Brennan's Red-Wine and Mushroom Sauce

Once again, I was responsible for our yard clipping overgarnish on this dish. Chef thought that the sauce was too tomato-y and did not have enough taste of mushrooms, and it was too thick. He also didn't like that our group put the sauce on top of the pork, which hid the beautiful sear on the meat. Meat was a little overcooked. The dish wasn't hot enough.

Teriyaki Salmon with Pineapple-Papaya Salsa

Chef loved the flavor on the salsa, but the dice was too big. Also, he thought that our marinade was too soy-saucy. We marinated the fish far longer than recommended, so it broke apart on the grill, and we cooked it too early, so it was cold and kind of gross by the time we served it. Oh yeah, and we used too much of the salsa when we plated it.

Pan-Fried Flounder with Toasted Garlic

The flounder was also not hot enough, although it was cooked properly. The buttery garlic sauce tasted good, but was hardly a sauce by the time we served it. We prepared it too early, so the dish was cold and the sauce had a chance to harden up. He also thought the fish was underseasoned.

Altogether, it was a great learning experience--and a humbling one. It is one thing to prep a dish so that it tastes great the moment you finish it, and it is quite another to time things properly to have them taste good at a very specific time.

A lot of foods taste good when they come right off the heat, but not so much when they are reheated or sit for a little while. Part of cooking a lot of food and a variety of food is knowing what foods will hold if you cook them early (and how to hold them), and which ones won't ... and knowing to what point you can prep something that won't hold so you can be as close as possible to done as early as possible.

I also learned that I do not know how to garnish ... well, at ALL apparently. Something to work towards ...

Week Three: Now We're Cooking!

I am happy to report that we were finally unleashed in the kitchen.

Crazy? Maybe. But the theme for week three was "major cooking techniques" and ready or not, we did it--in groups of four no less. Hey, no time like the present, right?

So what were we newbies allowed to cook in the class kitchen?

We shallow-poached fish and deep-poached eggs.

We pan-fried chicken and fish, and deep-fried fresh-cut french fries.

We simmered rice and boiled pasta, roasted onions and carrots, and braised chicken thighs.

We sauteed shrimp and bell peppers, and seared pork loin.

Because our group was so large, the chefs not only divided us into foursomes to tackle the list, but they also had half of us work from the top of the list down and the other half from the bottom of the list up. It was crowded, er, EVERYWHERE. It was hot and loud and chaotic. It was hard to find open burners or clean pans. And most of all, it was messy: Greasy stovetops, tabletops, floors and culinary students.

I am pleased to report, however, that the group my husband and I ended up in did pretty well--and our mise en place was MUCH improved. No big blunders. In fact, curiously enough, I believe the things we had some trouble with were actually those I thought would be easiest: rice and pasta. The chef rated both as underdone initially. I guess al dente is in the eye of the beholder ... And we learned the trick of cooking french fries twice. Very cool.

Here is a short-list of some of the kitchen wisdom gained from this week's class:

1. Cooking is basically nothing more or less than applying heat to food. There are three types of cooking: dry, moist, and a combination of the two. Dry cooking would include roasting and baking, grilling and broiling, sauteing and frying. Moist methods include simmering, poaching and steaming. Combination techniques include braising and stewing.

2. Fat application is a big deal since fat plays a big role in the flavor profile. The right amount of fat enhances flavor. Under-fatting means no base, body or finish to your food. Over-fatting muddies the palette. Apparently, I have a problem with over-fatting. Tricky tricky...

3. No cooking times are accurate. You cook the food until it is done. There are too many variables to know exactly. Cooking times are ballpark figures. Learn to recognize doneness by using the senses. Even the best thermometer still has an error range of +/- 5 degrees.

4. Do as the restaurants do: get the color you want on a piece of meat using the stopetop and if it isn't done, finish it in the oven. It seems so simple and yet I never really thought about it that way!

5. The magic temperature when cooking proteins is 120 degrees (120-125 degrees = rare). That is the temperature at which proteins start to denature. A temperature of 140 degrees is ok (135-145 degrees = medium rare), but anything over 160 is ick (160 degrees = medium). EXCEPTIONS: ground meats and poultry (bring to 165 degrees for safety reasons).

Why not cook meat to more than 160 degrees? Because heat makes protein molecules coagulate and the more they do, the harder, drier and tougher they get. Also, if you aim for a temperature of 150-155 degrees, you have to pull it off the heat earlier because the carry-over cooking (off the heat) can be 10 degrees or more. This is why you may have heard of the concept of letting meat "rest" before eating. It gives the meat a chance for the juices to redistribute.

This edict about the 160 degree cut-off also applies to pork. If the meat is white throughout, it is overcooked. Aim for a hint of pink. Ignore older cookbooks that state otherwise. If diners insist on overcooked pork, you can increase the moisture and tenderness of the meat by brining it (basically a water-and-salt solution at its most basic) before cooking to help lock in moisture.

6. Sugars caramelize, not proteins. To say that you are caramelizing meat is a misnomer. What we call caramelization is actually a mayard reaction in the amino acids. This process gives the dark crust on the exterior of meats that does add flavor but does NOT seal in juices.

And for the record, while we are talking about it, starches gelatinize and fats melt when heated.

7. Ninety-five percent of all cooking starts with a very hot pan ... and cold fat. Add the fat to a hot pan to keep it from overcooking and going rancid. While we are talking about hot pans ... don't heat a pan until a smokes, particularly a nonstick pan. A nonstick can give off noxious fumes, and smoking metal is not a desirable flavor in our food.

8. When sauteing, don't overcrowd the pan or you will end up steaming it instead.

9. Pan-frying always involves some sort of coating on the food, even if it is just flour. Otherwise, it is a saute. When deep-frying, caoting is optional but get as much moisture out of the food as you can, or it can cause an explosion.

10. When cooking pasta or rice, if you break a grain of rice in half or piece of pasta and there is still a bit of white in the center, it is not done. The doneness also depends on the ultimate use for the rice or pasta. Will it be served hot or cold? Will it undergo a second round of cooking? These factors must be considered.

But perhaps the MOST important thing I learned that night is something simple, something I already knew but we somehow all forgot in our culinary fervor:

CLEANLINESS IS A VIRTUE.

That night, we had to clean, as usual. But this time, we had been very messy children. To top it off, we had the joy of taking apart ALL of the very large and steaminig hot stovetops, and scrubbing them down with steel wool soaked in degreasing solution. By the end, my arms were sore, I was dripping sweat, my jacket was stained an odd shade of black-brown, I smelled of grease, and I had several steel wool splinters.

It reminded me of the summers when I worked in my grandfather's gas station and had to clean the popcorn maker, which like the stovetop burners, cleans best when it is scalding hot!

Not my first dirty job, and the chefs assured us, not our last ... But we all swore we'd be cleaner next week. Somehow, I doubt it.

The Next Food Network Star

I must confess that I haven't really gotten into The Next Food Network Star show. I did try but just haven't been able to catch enough episodes to really get attached to anyone. Even Top Chef, which I watched religiously the first season, hasn't captured my attention enough for me to schedule my life around it.

That being said, I was flipping through the June issue of Bon Appetit on a flight to New Orleans and stumbled across a column introducing the season four (is it already season four??) contestants. I might have to try to watch this one!

In the spirit of the article, I decided to write-up my own little bio:

Jessica Llanes, Culinary Student & Writer
Texas

Cooking Philosophy: Feel-good classics with fresh surprises. Don't be afraid to mix it up and improv!
Kitchen Soundtrack: I just put my iTunes on shuffle and jam.
Signature Dish: Baby Back Beans & New Orleans BBQ Shrimp
Secret Weapon: Insatiable curiousity and a willingness to try, try again!

Cooking Update: The Clarified Butter Files

Quick update for those interested (Two and counting, woohoo!). Over the past couple of days I have been trying to practice what we have been learning in class on my own. Part of the deal with taking cooking classes that meet only once a week is that you do a lot of work on your own between classes. I have been slacking off the past couple of weeks so I am trying to catch up.

The knife skills are coming along slow but sure. Still can't do a 1/4" small dice of a carrot. My dice is more rectangular than square. (Apparently I have trouble planking correctly and don't square off with my knife...) My onions are MUCH improved, and I have been inventing reasons to blanch, peel and seed tomatoes. I know, party animal, right?

My first batch of clarified butter turned out ok. Not completely clear of foam, but not bad for my first go. It is harder to get rid of the foam than I thought. At least I didn't cook the butter, which apparently is a big no-no. I have yet to use it, but every time I open the fridge and see the container, I get a little excited about the recipes I can now try.

So last night I attempted a brown stock. I used about 1/3 of the ingredients from the textbook recipe, which means basically 1 gallon of water, 5 pounds of chicken bones, and less than a pound of mirepoix. I ended up using whole chicken legs, which I am not sure is a good idea or not.

The stock has great flavor. I got about 1 quart out of the deal. Alas, it is cloudy. I think I simmered it too hard. And of course, I started too late in the evening (8 pm by the time it started simmering), so I only let it cook about 4 1/2 hrs instead of the suggested 6 to 8. I saved the bones for a remouillage (a weaker stock made with reused bones). Hopefully this one will be a little clearer. If not, I will try a trick I read of adding a couple of egg whites to the broth and then straining them out. If nothing else, I think I will make some espagnole (brown sauce) so I can try a demi-glace.

My other culinary adventure from last night was to make a marinara sauce. I used a recipe from Giada de Laurentiis. I like the recipe because it is easy to remember, tastes great, and is basic, so it can be used as a base for a lot of other tomato sauce variations, including an all-time favorite of mine: vodka sauce. I made about two quarts of marinara last night. I do vary the recipe a little by adding oregano and by using a mix of crushed and whole tomatoes (squeezed of seeds of course). I prefer my marinara a little chunkier.

Most of the sauce will head for the freezer, but I did use a little for last night's dinner: I did a shallow poach of sweet Italian sausages in a bit of red wine, finished them uncovered with dry heat. I deglazed the pan with some of my husband's homemade salsa picante (tomatoes, jalapenos, garlic and salt) and added some of the marinara. I sliced the sausage links into bite-size pieces and added them back to the sauce, topped it with fresh chopped parsely, shredded fresh parmesan and served it with fresh pappardelle. Not bad! The sauce got a little dark for me, so I diluted with a bit of water and with a small can of tomato puree. Next time I might poach in a lighter liquid.

This weekend we're tackling poached eggs and homemade hollandaise, so look for another update soon!

Lanny's Alta Cocina Mexicana

Lanny's Alta Cocina Mexicana
3405 W 7th Street
Fort Worth, TX 76107

My husband and I recently read some reviews giving Lanny's very high praise and decided to stop in for lunch last week. We did make day-of reservations, but found that for lunch, you are probably ok just dropping in. (In the evening, I would highly recommend them, however, because for Fort Worth, this place is cozy!)

Lanny's is the creation of Lanny P. Lancarte II, a Fort Worth native and great-grandson of the legendary Joe T. Garcia. His culinary studies took him through Mexico and to the Culinary Institute of America in New York. His restaurant, which opened in 2005, serves dishes that combine traditional and haute elements of Mexican cuisine.

From the outside, Lanny's is easy to miss, making it a hidden local favorite. There is currently a bit of construction on 7th right around the area, and the building and parking lot are on the small side. But I loved the cozy atmosphere once inside. Crisp white linens, comfortable brown leather seating, dark wood and soft curtain dividers make for a modern yet warm dining room. The bungalow-style patio is especially inviting, though incredibly small (read: intimate). Can you say romantic?

The day we showed up, the kitchen was out of a few dishes, but they were quick to offer several tasty substitutions.

I started with the Heirloom Tomato Gazpacho with Citrus-Laced Shrimp, a luxuriously smooth and brightly flavored soup with the color of a perfectly vine-ripened tomato. The drizzle of olive oil and hint of citrus were in perfect balance and a wonderful respite for a hot Texas day. Although the solo shrimp was almost underdone for my taste, it was still amazingly fresh and delicate.

My husband ordered a Sopa Azteca, along the lines of a traditional tortilla soup and the special soup of the day, which he described as almost a mole without the chocolate flavor--smoky and rich dark red broth, with a hardiness and great depth of flavor and tender shreds of chicken breast.

For our main course, we both opted for cemitas, a traditional sandwich from Puebla, Mexico. Although the sandwich is similar to a Mexican torta, there are a couple of notable differences. The most obvious is the type of bread used: a fluffy egg bread roll with a wonderfully firm crust and rich but surprisingly airy interior.

These sandwiches have gained recent popularity among street vendors in New York City and traditionally include beef milanesa, a thinly-pounded flank steak that is breaded and pan-fried. Traditional accompaniments include panela cheese, avocado, onion and salsa roja.

At Lanny's I ordered the Prime Tenderloin Cemita served with Avocado, Caramelized Onion, Maytag Blue Cheese, and Horseradish Crème Fraiche. It was divine! Tender and full-flavored beef with the gentle heat of the horseradish tamed by the cream and the pungent (but not overly so) bite of blue cheese. The avocado slices were bright green and perfectly ripe. My husband ordered Chicken Milanesa with Roasted Red Pepper Pico Sauce and Gruyere. The milanesa was thin, not greasy with just the right amount of breading, and the sauce was slightly smoky and not overly spicy. Both were served with fresh-cut, stacked log french fries.

Expect New York prices ($50+ lunch for two) and moderately-sized dishes. The sandwiches were filling enough that both my husbsnd and I took the other half home with us to eat for dinner (and we did!).

Other lunch items to try include: Roasted Poblano and Asparagus Soup with Duck Confit; Chile Rubbed Chicken Breast Salad with Queso Manchego, Grapes, Walnuts,and White Balsamic Green Onion Vinagrette; and Roulade of Chicken, with Chile Poblano, Queso Panella and Serrano Ham, and Sauteed Spinach.

Service was attentive and not intrusive. The wine list is extensive and a chef tasting menu is offered for dinner. We definitely plan to make our next visit soon and hopefully dinner on the patio! This definitely makes my current top 3 restaurants in Fort Worth. Keep it up!

Week Two, Part II: Mise en Wha??

So, as promised, I am "revisiting" week two of culinary class to discuss the topic of mise en place.

Mise en place is a really simple concept that can be really difficult to execute properly. In fact, I was recently watching an episode of Ramsay's Kitchen Nightmares that touched on this topic. He visited a restaurant that was taking upwards of 2 hours (yes, TWO HOURS) to deliver plates to customers--and rotten entrees at that! The owner was losing buckets of money bribing customers not to leave with bottles of wine and free liquor. Wow! Why? Because there was absolutely no method to the madness in the kitchen--totally chaos and anarchy.

So what is mise en place? It basically means "to put in place." It is the before-you-cook prep work. From gathering and prepping ingredients to gathering and prepping tools, you plan everything you possibly can to make the best use of your time and resources. It can also include other tasks, such as clarifying butter, making bread crumbs and making bouquets garnis.

If you watch the Food Network, you've seen evidence of mise en place--all those little clear bowls filled with pre-prepped and measured ingredients or pots and bowls already out and ready to be used. Rachel Ray on her show 30 Minute Meals makes it a point to gather all ingredients and tools at the start of the show. Despite this, a lot of tv prep also goes on behind the scenes and off camera. I never realized how much until I read Noel Riley Fitch's biography of Julia Child called Appetite for Life. The scripts for her shows including a lot of food choreography meant to show foods prepared ahead to illustrate various incarnations of a dish before it is finished. The work required not only scripting but also an entire staff to coordinate it!

In a home kitchen, I have especially felt the effects of poor planning late in the preparations, when I realize I have forgotten to buy a last-minute ingredient or that I already used the only bowl big enough to hold something that needs to come out of a hot pan RIGHT NOW. The frustration you feel when you realize that too many things have to be done at the same moment to get the meal ready and on the table, or when you realize food has gotten burnt or soggy or sauce has separated because of poor timing, can be overwhelming.

In a professional kitchen, the effects of poor mise en place can be disastrous. You simply have to plan or you will not have customers or kitchen staff for long. Coordination of so many tasks and so many people is impossible without mise en place.

And my first lesson in mise en place in a professional kitchen was eye-opening. Mise en place in my own private kitchen has improved dramatically in recent years, but I am usually only coordinating myself, and possibly one other person--usually my husband. In the classroom, there were three or four of us per table. Each table was required to produce three stocks, a court boullion and clarified butter.

I was sure it would be cake, but most tables were "in the weeds" (i.e. behind) the ENTIRE time. I felt panicked and out of control, frustrated, and unsure of where we were at any given moment. We managed to finish everything, but not without constantly scrambling, grabbing last-minute ingredients and equipment, and in the neverending process of checking to see if we were all taking care of all of the things we were supposed to.

Basically, having to work in teams really highlighted the importance of planning and coordination. And how much we ALL lacked those very skills.

My goal from here on out? Prepare as much as I can before even coming to class, and before any cooking starts, come up with an entire game plan, not just the first step or the first fifteen minutes! Oh, and practice, practice!

Week Two, Part I: Voulez Veloute Avec Moi?

Ok, ok, so it doesn't quite work, but you can't blame me for trying to compare a sauce made with clarified butter to sex, can you?

So, I made it through the week two culinary class, and you guessed it, I learned how to make that liquid gold called clarified butter. I think I am going to need to buy bigger pants or take a few extra yoga classes ...

Clarified butter aside, this week's class focused on mise en place and the foundation of all good soups and sauces, stock. We made white stock, brown stock, veggie stock--even a court bouillon! Now, you may be (and probably are) more informed than I was on the subject of stocks, but I learned a lot. My only prior stock experience, aside from the occasional turkey carcass experiment, was popping the cap on a container of purchased stock from the local grocery store.

Don't misunderstand: I have READ about stocks before, and even convinced myself that I would make a few on the weekend "just because." But I never really had six to eight extra hours with nothing to do where I thought, Gee, I need to go make some veal stock!

So here is the down and dirty of things I learned about stocks:

1. The difference between white and brown stock isn't chicken or beef. It has to do with whether you brown up (i.e., caramelize) the veggies and bones first. Caramelizing results in a darker, richer stock. It especially tasty with veal bones.

2. You have to start with cold water. You must skim off the foam. You must simmer, not boil. And you must not just pour the stock into the container and put it in the fridge when you are done. Your goal is clear, not cloudy, so if don't follow the guidelines just mentioned, you're screwed. You must carefully ladle the stock into a mesh strainer, being careful not to disturb the sediment. You can even strain it twice before putting it in a ice bath to cool before storage.

3. Another interesting tidbit: the fat that congeals at the top of the stock in the fridge helps to keep it from spoiling, but you should freeze it if you don't plan to use it in about a week or two.

4. Don't salt your stock! You don't want to limit its use later, so to keep it versatile for all recipes, minimize the sodium. Add it in later. Also, pepper isn't your friend. It can go bitter if you let it cook too long and flavor your entire dish with bitter pepper flavor.

5. Protein (i.e., bones) are the basis of any non-veggie stock, but two other things besides water are imperative: the mirepoix and the sachet. A classic mirepoix is 50% onion, 25% carrots and 25% celery. The size of the dice gets smaller the shorter the time the stock cooks. The sachet is a cheesecloth filled with herbs and other flavoring components, like peppercorns or a clove of garlic.

6. Brown stocks have to cook forever. If you are short on time or just aren't that ambitious, try a veggie or fish stock. Eight hours becomes less than one. Or try a court bouillon. It isn't actually a stock, but it is often used in place of water to poach seafood. It also has an acid element, usually citrus and vinegar.

7. Stockpots in a professional kitchen are gi-normous.

8. I need to learn more math. Taking a recipe for 2 gallons of stock and reducing it by a fifth isn't as easy as I thought. Proportion is everything.

9. My ulimate goal is to be able to make a glaze. That is where you reduce a stock down to a thick syrup and refrigerate it. Then you can freeze it and it keeps for a long. Since this is concentrated uber-stock, you just cut a square of the glaze jelly to add to recipes. What a space saver!

10. If you are a great sauce-maker, you are gold to any good restaurant.

Most of all: Stocks are much more complicated than I thought!

Stay tuned for part II where I write my confessional about how much I suck at mise en place.

Week One: On the Way to Chefhood!

I recently enrolled and started cooking school and have been prodded by several loved ones to post about my journey from average home cook to hopefully above average chef. So here goes nothing ...

The chef program I chose is designed for working adults and actually meets once a week in the evening. The instructors trust you to do a lot of work during the week between classes, and they include some hands-on lab experience in the form of brunches and theme dinners. If I hang in there for four semesters, I get my chef certificate.

Although the program isn't as rigorous or hardcore as Cordon Bleu or CIA, it fit my goals, and I was not disappointed after the first class. The instructors are professional chefs, and they expect us to respect the uniform and the kitchen. We are expected to come to class in full uniform, cleaned and pressed. We are supposed to say "Yes, chef" and "No, chef" to our instructors. I was excited at one of the first professional perks besides the nifty uniform--my own case with my very own knives. (Although I couldn't help but think of the Top Chef line: "Please pack your knives and go.")

The first class we spent a lot of time on sanitation and safety. Not glamorous but necessary for our handler's permit and well, safety, of course. My overwhelming impression of the first class was something the chefs kept saying: Everything in this kitchen is hot or sharp. I feel now like the home kitchen is like a kitchen with training wheels. Everything in the professional kitchen is bigger, hotter, sharper. There is less protection from yourself-- the flames go higher and there is less insulation or safety protection devices. Forget hot mitts--you use your little hand towel to touch pan handles and move cookie sheets. You even leave a towel wrapped around the handle of a hot pan meant for a dishwasher to let them know it's hot.

The other thing that struck me is getting used to sharing a kitchen with so many others. Common courtesy isn't just to be nice--it is imperative. You yell "sharp" if you are walking with a knife and "hot" if you are walking with a hot pan. It is tough to share kitchen space with a dozen other cooks. The room looks spacious until you are all trying to work! (Of course, once clean up time came around, I was glad there were so many of us...)

Another side note: several pieces of equipment seem to have a slightly different name than you would use at home. The most notable probably being the saute and frying pan. A straight side pan is a sautoir and a sloped side pan is a sauteuse. Rectangular pans that look like roasters or cake pans are all called hotel pans.

The highlight of the night was the knife work. We learned how to hold the knife correctly, how to chop and slice, how to hold our non-knife-holding hand for safety. We practiced first on celery, then moved to specific cuts on carrots--a julienne (thin sticks) and a brunoise (small dice). We also julienned potatoes; chopped onions; peeled and chopped tomatoes; and sliced, diced and pureed garlic. We also broke out the mandolin and experimented with potatoes. My favorite had to be the supreme of the orange with the paring knife. It was cool to peel and segment an orange the "right" way for once!

Overall, a great experience, especially since I have the pleasure of my husband's company as a fellow student in the class. Why didn't I do this two years ago??

iLove & Loss in Cowtown

I will be the first to admit that the iPhone craze may be a little ridiculous, but not so much to stop me from joining the frenzy and buying one.

I wasn’t one of the hardcore believers who waited in long lines to get the first ones. In fact, after waiting in anticipation for close to seven months, my soon-to-be-hubby Richard and I almost changed our minds about buying them. That is, until we got to test drive my sister’s shiny new toy over the Fourth of July holiday weekend. "You'll never be the same," she warned me.

Richard and I each bought one midday Monday of this past week (no long lines or waiting lists). It took a little doing and multiple sim cards to get it all set up—not because of an iPhone issue, but rather the hassle of switching cell service and keeping a phone number but not living in the market for that number (long story). However, by late Tuesday, thanks to the diligence of a wonderful future spouse, my iPhone was officially up and running, and I was officially in LOVE.

And the next day it was gone.

Yes, that’s right. I am one of the first iPhone converts with the dubious honor of having my precious and overpriced piece of pickpocketable technology stolen… And believe me, I cried like I just lost the family dog.

One tearful police report, a few calls to the restaurant where it was stolen, and several condolences from friends and strangers later (one very nice lady at AT&T exclaimed, "That makes me so mad!"), I still have not recovered the phone. (For those who don't know, AT&T and Apple do not offer insurance on the phone, though I was able to file a claim through my renter's insurance for a partial reimbursement.)

Although I do find it comforting that whoever ends up with it really just has a very expensive paperweight, the loss still smarts (there is nothing quite like that sick feeling of losing close to $700 in less than 48 hours, though it is far from the first time I have been robbed and probably not the last).

In reaction, I went right out and bought another iPhone on Thursday. It is THAT cool. Now I just need to find a purse with an alarm system.

Adventures of the Texas Land Man ... er Woman

At a friend's wedding last Saturday I heard the most shocking piece of information ... I have readers. Or should I say HAD readers. I recently switched careers and have been traveling back and forth between Fort Worth and Houston for the past couple of months, and in all the upheaval, fell down on the job with my blogs. Who am I kidding? I can't even blame the career move. It just has been one hectic summer... except it's November, so I guess that isn't really an excuse either.

Anyway, a friend's boyfriend who I hadn't seen in ages mentioned that they have checked my blog and haven't seen any action on it in months. And I have no excuse since I have had plenty to say (as always), so I'm back at reader request ... or something like that. It sounds good, so leave me my fantasy.

It actually is a pleasure to write again now that most of my days aren't spent writing lately ... My editorial position with the art magazine ended in August when the office relocated to Colorado, and I was offered a job in a completely new field with perks too good to pass up. So although I still am making money doing freelance writing, my bread is buttered by the oil and gas industry (yes, I know I have complained about my miserable five months tech writing for a prominent oil and gas company, but this is different ... I swear ... and it pays better).

I am now (drumroll please) ... a land man. If you have no idea what that is, don't feel bad. I didn't either until recently, and when asked what I do, I usually just say that I am a consultant for the oil & gas industry. For the curious, I will give a brief elaboration. A land man (or land manager) researches title and mineral ownership on tracts of land for interested clients, and in some cases, actually arranges for the lease of mineral rights from their owners.

In practice, it means time away from a desk, a cubicle and corporate America. There is quite a bit of driving, but I also can work from my "home" office or at various courthouses. And since I am self-employed, it also is largely self-directed. And it allows me the time and financial freedom to write, which is wonderful. The hardest part is spending so much time away from lovely Houston and all my dear friends and family ... although the weather in Fort Worth has been lovely.

Plus, with my daily food allowance, I have the opportunity to try all the great restaurants in the Dallas-Fort Worth area (woohoo!), which for a foodie like myself is irresistible. All in all, quite the adventure and worth sharing. So keep tuning in dear readers, and I will do my best not to disappoint!

Reichl Rocks

So I’m a little behind the eight ball on this, but I just finished reading Tender at the Bone and Comfort Me with Apples by food writer/editor Ruth Reichl. I have never really followed Reichl’s career or read much of her writing, and what a joy it was to discover such a fantastic storyteller and food lover for the first time. Not only did I devour the books in just a couple of days, I also subjected my boyfriend to several chapters I read aloud to him while he watched muted Miami Heat/Dallas Mavericks games. Oh, and I just ordered her newest book on Amazon today and have been scouring websites (in vain) trying to find archives of her 1970s columns in the LA Times.

I may have to break down and go to the library.

I believe these may be the best memoirs I have ever read. Of course, I haven’t read many. But that’s usually because it is hard for me to really get into the typical memoir format. Reichl’s books read more like a good page-turning fiction novel. Tight, evocative, and touching. Wow, I really can’t say enough.

The way she ties the food experience to people and to the story is really remarkable, since so many people try without nearly this level of success. And her descriptions of food, whether it is a meat counter at a Spanish marketplace, an exotic dish discovered in China, or a dining experience with friends, are remarkable. So inventive, so original, but still true. They seem so dead-on and yet she finds a way to introduce the most mundane thing again and make the reader experience it for the first time. Truly admirable. I found myself rereading descriptions with a mixture of awe and envy.

I just can’t believe I didn’t pick these up sooner. And I will probably pick them up again before the month is over. I just hope an anthology of her columns is in the works (hint, hint)!

Disaster Strikes!

Those who know me understand that although there is always room for culinary improvement in my kitchen, very rarely do I have to actually dump a meal down the disposal. In fact, the last time was November 2001: I made a navy bean casserole but used a TABLESPOON of dried sage instead of the required teaspoon. Rookie mistake.

What I didn't know at the time is that large amounts of sage are actually mildly poisonous (is there is a such a thing as mildly poisonous or is everything just poisonous?). The dutiful diners who choked down a few spoonfuls of the toxic legume dish spent several hours regretting it. Ah, those were the days.

Since then, I've been doing okay in my cooking adventures. Not every meal is stellar, but always edible and often more than edible. I guess they do say pride before the fall, right?

So one night I am making fettuccine with vodka sauce ... "Thirty minute meal" (thank you Rachel Ray and by the way, her magazine rocks), so it isn't the *real* vodka sauce but it was going to be an acceptable substitute. I had been buying Raos brand vodka sauce, which is very tasty, but at $9 a bottle, I just can't justify the expense all the time.

I put a pot of pasta water on to boil, grab my ceramic cast iron dutch oven and start browing up some garlic in olive oil while I chop some fresh basil. All is right with the world. I even take the time to give my boyfriend a quick culinary lesson--I have been trying to help him tell different herbs apart, so I gave him a basil leaf to smell and taste.

Since I am a big Astros fan, he starts reading me an article on Lights Out Lidge and how he has moved on since that awful Pujols home run in the Championship series last season. (I'm glad someone has because I haven't.)

Anyway, I add crushed tomatoes to the garlic, then the basil leaves. When the basil leaves wilt, in goes a glug or so of vodka. At this point I am glowing about my own ability to multi-task: Salt pasta water. Check. Dump in pasta. Check. Listen to boyfriend. Check. Wait for sauce to boil. Check. Time to reduce the heat and take a taste!

This is when the trouble begins, because I decide to (*gasp*) improvise. I don't like tomato sauces that are overly acidic, and they tend to be if they don't cook very long. I read somewhere that a bit of sugar or baking soda can help with this, so I add a sprinkling of sugar. But of course, I am still not happy and make the fateful mistake of grabbing a box of baking soda and well, let's just say that if you choose to do this in the future, a little, I mean a very little, goes a long way.

My sauce foams up like I have never seen a tomato sauce foam before. Wait--I have never seen tomato sauce foam before. Tomato sauce shouldn't foam. And then it turns an unnatural orange color ... almost like the greasy residue of cafeteria spaghetti.

I try not to panic. I turn to the one cookbook that I have used almost daily for at least six years, well every time I cook anyway: Brilliant Food Tips and Cooking Tricks--an alphabetical guide to kitchen secrets and shortcuts, with some recipes thrown in.

I read the dreaded words: "The catch with baking soda is that it must be properly balanced with the acidic ingredient so that it is fully neutralized. If not, the leftover baking soda will leave a soapy, bitter flavor." I taste the sauce. Oh yes, soapy and bitter.

I am now fighting chemistry. In school, chemistry always won. Things do not look good.

I look for other acids--brown sugar, lemon juice, cream of tartar, buttermilk and chocolate ... Ok, I don't have buttermilk and chocolate is out. I try adding a bit of brown sugar. Then I try adding a can of Italian seasoned diced tomatoes for more acid. Still not working ... I add some tomato paste--just a teaspoon or so. After adding each ingredient, the foam kicks up again. I taste the sauce, which at this point looks more like soup ... Ok, a little better. Maybe if I cook it a little longer.

By this point, the pasta is done. I drain it and steam some asparagus, and turn my attention back to the sauce. A little lemon juice goes in, more brown sugar, some tomato paste, and now I can't tell what it tastes like. My mouth tastes like soap--but at least I'm in no danger of getting heartburn tonight ...

Finally, I add cream to the sauce and ladle some of it into the bowl of pasta, adding a little more basil and some cheese to hopefully mask whatever bitterness is left in the sauce. How I could make a sauce that is so overly sweet and that bitter at the same time is beyond me.

My boyfriend takes a test bite: "It's OK," he says a little too cheerily while adding a handful of cheese. I am not so sure. I think if I take one more bite, I am going to be sick and start eating the asparagus (which was great by the way). To lighten the mood, my boyfriend compares the meal to Lidge's famous failed slider that oddly makes me feel better. Then we made a unanimous decision to throw out the whole mess with pomp, ceremony and the help of a garbage disposal, and go get burgers (which were great by the way).

I will let you know when I do finally conquer the vodka sauce. I just think now is too soon. I still have the faint taste of baking soda in the back of my throat ...If culinary disaster strikes only once every five years, I can handle it ... especially since the boyfriend's parents are coming for dinner tonight.

Humbled in Houston

Just Add Water?

Joseph Campbell, mythologist and author of The Hero with a Thousand Faces, once said that “hell is life drying up.” To him, life is about the individual journey—following your bliss and creating your own path in the world. To ignore the call to adventure or to follow a path that is not your own means stagnation. It is the wasteland.

There is really no way to describe the unease and disharmony—even on the body’s cellular level—of knowing you are off course unless you have felt it. But I would say that “life drying up” is a good start. For me it feels like swimming against the current, like the pull of gravity, like all-out war with your own cellular resistance.

I believe in listening to my body’s own cues—even if it sometimes takes me a while to catch on.

When I was just starting my junior year at college, my body decided I need a break whether I wanted one or not. I had just returned from a semester abroad, and before I even had a chance to feel jet lag, I began the cross-country drive back to school where I had signed up for a full course load (and then some), a writing fellowship and part-time campus job. I was also very close to getting engaged. But less than a month into the semester, I crashed. I was diagnosed with severe mononucleosis and had to withdraw from school and head to New Orleans for some R&R.

I have not experienced another corporeal coup d’état before or since, but I bring it up because now my body doesn’t have to resort to such extreme measures to get my attention. (Knock on wood!)

In the last month or so before I left my job, I began to dread every weekday. At the office, time slowed to a crawl, a very bored crawl. I left work on edge, completely drained and head throbbing. Life drying up.

I berated myself for being so unmotivated and unhappy, and for not being able to make myself turn lemons into lemonade. I tried to make the best of the situation, and do the “responsible thing” and keep the job until I could find something better. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that I had left my path. I was wasting valuable time, and I was miserable in the meantime.

In contrast, when I finally decided to leave—with no solid prospects—so that I could dedicate all my energy to getting back on track, I felt elated. Scared, but elated. The fog lifted. I was back to my old self again, and it only took me six months to figure it out.

So why am I talking about any of this? Because as bad as it feels to be off-track is as good as it feels to be back. And when you are feeling in flow with life and following your bliss, I believe that heaven and earth respond. Doors open that wouldn’t open for anyone else. Doors open where there were only walls before. Julia Cameron, author of The Artist’s Way, calls it synchronicity (though I think she got it from Jung), and that’s exactly what I am feeling right about now. My life has officially been rehydrated, and I couldn't be happier.

It’s great to be back!

“A bit of advice given to a young Native American at the time of his initiation: ‘As you go the way of life, you will see a great chasm. Jump. It is not as wide as you think.’” Joseph Campbell

The Sisterhood of the Pink Leather Pants

It’s rodeo time again here in Houston, Texas.

That time of year when nearly two million visitors fill Reliant Stadium to see all the barrel-racing, bull-riding, calf-scrambling action of the local rodeo (in fact, the world’s largest livestock show and rodeo since 1932).

Yes, here in Houston, the rodeo is eagerly anticipated by cowboys and non-cowboys alike. I, on the other hand, have always tried to avoid the rodeo or anything resembling a rodeo.

Although born in wilds of Wyoming, I have never really been fascinated with the Old West, the Wild West or any other kind of West, except perhaps for Nine West. Maybe it is the smell of cow pies, but I just never was a rodeo kind of gal.

So imagine my surprise as a Houston newbie when my non-Wrangler wearing friends and coworkers began buzzing with excitement over the approaching cow fest. Why get worked up over pissed-off bulls, pony rides and calf birthing? I just didn’t get it. It must be some sort of wacky Texas aberration (there are plenty, and if you don't believe me, go to Quitaque, Texas).

Don’t get me wrong. I respect Texas’s cowboy legacy. I just don’t want to witness it.

This is before I found out that the rodeo has come a long way since the ropin’ and ridin’ Spanish vagueros of the 1700s. Hell, it’s come a long way since the last time I (almost) came in contact with the Buffalo Bill Cody Stampede Rodeo less than ten years ago. Now it includes gourmet cook-offs and rock concerts in air-conditioned, club-level comfort. This is something I could get into … at least once anyway.

So when I told my grandmother that I was finally going to the Houston rodeo to see a Sheryl Crow concert, she seemed a bit bewildered about what I must mean by “rodeo”—prompting her to reply, “I guess us oldsters don’t know much about what is big with young people anymore.”

It was probably the same kind of bewilderment I felt when I went to what was advertised as a country fair and farmer’s market in Utah that ended up being a just a collection of cell phone-pushing salespeople and a lady selling homemade soap.

Anyway, for Sheryl Crow, I decided to break my rule about rodeos. When she had to cancel her tour last week after being diagnosed with breast cancer, my boyfriend and I decided we would go just the same. So last night we set out with two of our friends for a night of country fun in the middle of the city.

I am not sure that my rodeo experience can be classified as “typical” because, well, Melissa Etheridge was the scheduled Sheryl Crow replacement, and so the female-seeking-female population was probably a little higher than normal. A lot higher than normal. Er, not that there’s anything wrong with that.

And they were all wearing pink because Sheryl and Melissa had asked that concert goers dress pink for breast cancer awareness. So it was quite the spectacle for conservative Texas. Though according to my friends in the corporate suite, conservative Texas is still alive and well because many suites cleared out the moment the concert began.

And they missed a great show. I am not a big Melissa Etheridge fan but wow, she is talented—what a powerful voice. I had a good laugh when she proudly displayed the Texas-size belt buckle engraved with her likeness that was given to her by the rodeo organizers. She even threw in a Janis Joplin song and sang “If It Makes You Happy.” I’ll take that over American Idol any day. (However, I could have done without the annoying chick behind me who thought we were at some sort of Baptist revival and kept yelling, “Preach it, baby” every ten seconds.)

Before the show, my boyfriend and I did manage to catch some of the rodeo antics—wagons races and calf chases—while eating our gourmet burgers and fries in posh club level comfort. Did I mention we were at club level? Though I found that the collective smell of dyed cow hide from all the leather-wearing rodeo goers adversely affected my dining experience. Tasting leather handbag every time you take a bite of burger isn't pleasant, even if it tastes like expensive leather with swiss cheese and guacamole.

We found the people watching far more entertaining that the bull riding. With the pink theme in place, it was like tacky western wear on acid—pink boas on snake-skin cowboy hats, pink leather pants so tight that they looked more like sausage casings and, my personal favorite, manly women in neon pink flannel shirts with matching plastic Crocs.

I may not be part of the cowboy boot-wearing, leather pant sisterhood, but I am beginning to appreciate the annual rodeo ritual. In fact, we’re going again next week to see Maroon 5.

Last night after the concert, while reflecting on the evening over a warm funnel cake, my boyfriend said to me, “Next time, we’ll show up later—just for the concert.”

“Deal,” I said. The rodeo is so much better without the rodeo.

Portrait of an Artist as a Young Corporate Slave

At this time over one week ago, I was sitting in my corporate cubbyhole tech writing for a prominent oil and gas company and going slowing crazy. How did I get here?

I am now “free” (which sounds so much better than “unemployed,” don’t you think?) and typing from the comfort of my own home office, but I still don’t exactly know the answer to that question. I do know it happened somewhere between me deciding not to go to graduate school in 1999 (hey, I needed a break) and a particularly violent coup d’état at an ad agency last year that included the firing of every writer except me. Small mercies.

You might think that is a good thing, especially since it included a small raise. You might be right, but the endless revolving door, reactionary management and the mercurial temper of the eccentric owner were getting unbearable and I jumped ship.

I was trapped in some sort of theatre of the absurd where every day we had to repeat the day before. Magazines, annual reports, ad campaigns were in a constant state of being “reworked.” Just before press time, they were scrapped so we could start the whole process again. Every passing whim and fancy of the company puppet master—and there were many—could be bankrolled, and they were. If the joy is in the journey, then we were in luck, because we never were allowed anywhere close to the destination.

On top of that, I had the misfortune of being a copywriter (and the first one in over two years to leave without being fired). To my surprise, I found that writers were not “creatives,” like the graphic designers and art directors. And I soon found out why. My job was more like a game of Mad Libs.

“I need three words about four letters long for this ad.”

“Can you write me three medium-size paragraphs about financial strength and potential?”

“The writing on this brochure doesn’t match what I envisioned for the layout. Can you delete two words per line in every paragraph?”

Um, I’d like to buy a vowel …

Instructions were usually impossibly specific, extremely vague or unreasonably absurd.

You see, I was not a “creative,” so I was not included in the planning or concepting process. In other words, I was not the idea man, I was the dictionary. I was simply the closer responsible for plugging in two adjectives, a verb and a noun that looked pretty before it went to press. Oh yes, and making sure everything was spelled correctly.

Nothing against graphic designers and account execs. Many of them are great friends and siblings of mine—and talented. But the exact nature of my job is often misunderstood.

What I mean is, everyone can write. Everyone can hold a pen. Everyone can put this pen to paper and make sentences. Ok, not everyone, but a lot of people. Many have taken a few English classes and had to write a paper or two. The difference between this and the skilled professional writer escapes a lot of people.

In my experience, people think that what separates me from the crowd is that I win spelling bees, play Scrabble really well and know what a dangling particle is. (And they would be wrong on two of three counts.) When I say I am a writer, I usually get either, “Oh, I have a book I want to write” or “I hated grammar in high school.”

Unlike nuclear power plants and computer technology, writing does not appear to require a trained professional because everyone with a high school diploma can do it (how well is another issue). And the more degrees they have and the higher up in the corporate food chain they are, the more insistent they are that they are, in fact, excellent writers.

And some are. But it doesn’t stop me from wanting to get a shirt that reads: Professional Writer—Please Don’t Try This at Home!

So I gave up the Mad Lib copywriting career for a miscalculated move into technical writing where writing is all science and no art, no flow, no poetry. I guess it has to be that way but it's not for me.

So here I am—free at last, free at last, and wondering if there truly is a happy place for the artist in corporate America. I sure hope so because I need to pay the rent.