In Which I eat Baby Heads

I’m baaaaaaaack.

Anyhow. So I’m at work the other day and I’m playing around attempting to make a plum compote for our new pumpkin pana cotta for the fall menu (be jealous, very jealous). My boss’ boss ordered these yellow plums that make this said compote look ugly, but we tasted it and thought is was fine. So my boss asks my coworker, “Do you want to try one?”

She says, “Uh, I don’t really like plums.”

My boss pretty much screeches “WHAT?!” but coworker recovers with, “But I like nectarines and peaches!”

So then my boss grumbles, “I don’t like peaches, they have that gross fuzz.”

I cheerfully chirp, “I like peaches.”

“Thank you!” She seemed really relieved to have someone on her side.

So, my boss starts saying something else and I mutter, “Yeah. It’s like eating a baby’s head.”

For a moment it’s just silent. They heard me. They look at me like I actually eat babies. For one second I am totally mortified and want to hide under the table I’m working in.

Then my boss rolls my eyes and they’re all,

“BACON!”

And so I grin like I didn’t almost crawl under the table and act all,

And that is my story.

Bacon, out.

Tales of the Kitchen: In Which I am Alive

Thought I abandoned my blog, didn’t you?

Well, you’d be right.

I generally suck at blog maintaining.

So I can’t promise regular posts, BUT, I have a nice long story for you today.

Okay, Carol left work to head off from Nowhere New York to Nowhere Michigan. But for the last few months she before she left, she decided that pranking me on and off would be the best idea in the world.

First she walked in one day and announced, “I’m going to throw an egg at your feet.”

Alriiiight.

Well, eventually she did (very anticlimactic).

Then an order for a sausage came in, and the waitress comes back to hang the ticket, smiling. I raise an eyebrow, open the cooler to get a sausage and–

An egg drops at my feet.

I go to ask dinner crew if they need any help with anything and Max (was on dinner, now the current lunch sous) asks me to check on dessert station. I go to open the cooler door and –

An egg drops at my feet.

I walk up to her and demand to know if she’s doing anything else today, or if she’s done and she says, “Well, there’s only two others.”

So, it was still snowing outside and I had my coat hanging in the wait station so I go to check and, sure enough, there’s an egg in my pocket.

But, try as I might, I can’t find the second egg.

So I’m driving home and I’m about half-way home (about a half-hour into the drive) and all of a sudden there was a clunk-clunk-clunk as a FREAKING EGG ROLLS ACROSS MY WINDSHIELD.

It actually survives the rest of the way home and I throw it at her feet the next day and that was that.

Or so I thought.

The first week I went full-time baking, about three weeks after the first eggs, APPARENTLY she stuffed an egg in my coat pocket of Saturday. And as I’m walking out the door on Sunday, she asks, “So did you find that egg in your pocket?”

She is SO LUCKY it didn’t break is there. Still, I chucked it at her and left work.

And another week passes, nothing much happens, then I’m leaving work on Friday and my boss, Patrick, walks up to me and asks, “Hey Kara, why is there a potato on your car?”

I stomp across the street to where she’s working and yell at her for a second before she says, “Only one potato?”

I stomp out to my car and do a thorough check, but can’t find it. I take the one potato off my windshield, sit down, check my mirrors –

There’s a potato shoved in between my passenger-side mirror and the car.

So then Saturday comes along and Patrick happily announces there was nothing on my car when he came in, but when I go outside I see something purple in the distance. I get a bit close and it’s actually just a bunch of lilacs and I get all happy because I like lilacs and they’re pretty and then –

There’s a freaking tomato hidden under the flowers.

So I go and confront her and throw the tomato at her and she says, “Just wait until tomorrow. Celery.”

Oh, tomorrow. I walked out of work and there is celery TAPED ALL OVER MY CAR. Well, actually in three spots that I can see, so I tear them off, walk back in the building and throw them all at her. And she’s like, “Wait, so you didn’t find the fourth?”

To this day, months later, I still haven’t found the fourth.

Anyhow, I decided before she left for Michigan, I needed my revenge.

I asked EVERYONE I knew for advice. My friends asked their friends for advice. We concocted a devious plan.

Early on in the week I boiled some eggs and stashed them, let them get nice and stinky. Thursday comes (her second-to-last day) and I grab the eggs, grab some plastic wrap, and sneak outside. I place the disgusting eggs on her windsheid and proceed to start wrapping her car when SHE FREAKING COMES OUT FROM THE BAR THAT SHE’S WORKING IN AT THAT VERY SECOND AND FREAKING CATCHES ME. LITERALLY ONLY ME COULD THIS HAPPEN TO. IT WAS THE ONLY TIME SHE LEFT THE BAR UNTIL THE END OF THE DAY ASLBDSKBSDHJBSJHBA.

So, deflated, I go back to work.

Then people start coming up to me.

“Oh my god, Bacon, did you see what she did to your car?”

“Bacon, it’s getting worse.”

“She just keeps coming out with more and more stuff!”

So I go outside. Here are a list of things I can remember on my car:
Egg plastic wrapped to my antenna.
Olives shoved on ALL MY TIRE NUTS.
Olives on my windshield.
Bread all over my windshield.
Gloves tied to my handles.
Gloves shoved in my license plates.
Plastic wrap on my rearview mirrors.
And, my personal favorite, brocolli florettes shoved into my grill.

So I rage around and come home and plot. I get one of my coworkers to bring in crayons that can write on glass. I plan on putting peanut butter under her doorhandles. I’m going to let bacon cook on her windshield.

So I walk out of the restaurant, my arms loaded with these things. And you know what?

I CAN’T FIND HER CAR.

I LOOK FOR AGES.

I GET THREE OTHER COWORKERS TO HELP ME.

I. COULDN’T. FIND. IT.

And so at the end of the day I walk across the street, slam into the kitchen and literally scream, “WHERE IS IT???”

She freaks out and nearly falls into the frier and squeaks, “Wh-where’s what?”

“YOUR CAR.”

“It’s, uh, right out front.”

Lo and behold, she parked her car right out in front of the bar where employees aren’t supposed to park, but it was her last day and why the hell not.

I gave up.

Though she left me a nice assortment of penis drawings on my windshield for the effort.

Bacon, out.

Tales of the Kitchen – In which there is a lot of Smeagol

Yes folks, that Smeagol.

This past brunch was an interesting one (as always). First I came in to the news that Carol is leaving the state at the end of next month, so I curled up and cried in a corner for a little while until they dragged me out and made me work. We were busy for a little while, but then came the usual boredom time and Carol goes to me, “So hey, I have this lifesize cardboard cut-out of Smeagol in my trunk. Should I get it?”

Not even questioning how it got there, I’m all,

“YES!”

So she brings little Smeagol in and we geek out for a moment and then I say, “You know what, we should hide this and scare people all day.”

To which she said, “YES!”

So we purposely hid him around corners for most of the morning and people are all,

Then we learn that the woman who works in the market, who is wonderful and we will call Linda, is particularly terrified of him. Which spurs the scare-ALL-the-poop-out-of-Linda marathon. We put him around a corner and called for her to come talk to us and made her jump a foot in the air. We propped him up on the line, let her get used to it, then one time when she was walking by we knocked it with a grill brush so it went flying in her face. I think she nearly passed out. My personal favorite, though, was when Linda went into the elevator and we knew she’d be coming out soon so we placed it right in front of the doors. We were in the kitchen when she came back up and al we heard was screaming and the smacking of cardboard.

She came back all like,

To which we cackled at and she stomped out of the kitchen.

This also happened to be the same day it was declared National Phil Collins Day in the kitchen. I don’t know why. But it was. That’s all.

Bacon, out.

Tales of the Kitchen – In Which Strawberry Farts are Discovered

Wow, man, I’m a horrible blogger. I haven’t posted in ages.

I will take my punishment.

Anyhow, going right into it:

So one day this week, it was just my boss and myself working. Normal people would probably freak out because OH GOD ONE ON ONE WITH THE BOSS, WHAT IF I SAY SOMETHING STUPID, but my boss, who we’ll call Trisha, is kinda really awesome. I’m one of those people who get all anxious about making sure to respect my higher-ups and all that (it kinda comes with the working-in-a-kitchen territory), but Trina’s never made me feel that way. Then again, I knew her as a colleague way before working with her as a boss.

Anyways, I was busy doing something tedious that I’ve since blocked from my brain while she got out about twenty-four containers of strawberries. We do high-quantity work, and we have a few wine dinners coming up, so I shrugged and kept working.

So by now she has a big bowl of cut up strawberries. She pauses, sighs and says to me, “Have you ever noticed how disgusting strawberries smell?”

“Um, not really, no,” I say. I mean, they’re freaking strawberries. Aren’t there shampoos and crud all made from that scent?

“No, really! Especially when you’re cutting up a bunch like this.”

So I sneak a little closer to her giant bowl of strawberries, lean in and…

THEY DO SMELL.

STRAWBERRIES. SMELL. LIKE. FARTS.

Now go smell some cut-up strawberries and tell me I’m wrong.

Bacon, out.

Tasty Tuesdays: In which I make some Quasi-Ramen Noodles of the Sour Curry Beef Variety

So I was Tumbling the other day and I saw some kinda awesome/weird ways to spice up ramen noodles. Which got me thinking: what defines ramen as “ramen” anyways?

Apparently, very little. The definition is almost as vague as curry. Stolen straight from wiki:

Ramen (ラーメン rāmen?, IPA: [ɽaːmeɴ]) is a Japanese noodle dish. It consists of Chinese-style wheat noodles served in a meat- or (occasionally) fish-based broth, often flavored with soy sauce or miso, and uses toppings such as sliced pork (チャーシュー chāshū?), dried seaweed (海苔 nori?), kamaboko, green onions, and occasionally corn. Almost every locality in Japan has its own variation of ramen, from the tonkotsu (pork bone broth) ramen of Kyushu to the miso ramen of Hokkaido.

Which naturally meant I had to play with it and create my own.

*cough*

A couple of the ingredients may be foreign to you, so I’ll link the words to pictures of the products that I use — though there are plenty different varieties out there. These are all very common things found in Asian markets, and some awesome grocery stores. You probably have an Asian market nearby, trust me. If I have one within driving distance in the middle of nowhere, anything’s possible. Google is your friend.

If you have any questions, feel free to shoot them at me!

Stuff for a single serving:

  • 1 tsp.      Oil (olive or sesame recommended)
  • ½ sm      Onion, diced or sliced
  • 1 clv        Garlic, minced
  • 2 c          Water
  • 2             Beef Bouillon Cubes OR water & bouillon can be replaced by 2 c Beef Stock/Broth*
  • ½ c-¾ c   Vegetable of Choice (I used edamame & napa cabbage)
  • 1 tsp.       Tamari or Soy sauce
  • A TINY LITTLE DAB of Red Curry Paste (This is legit spicy stuff. Omit or add more at your discretion
  • 1 tbsp       Sour Curry Paste
  • 1 tbsp       Miso
  • About 1 c  Noodles** — too much or too little won’t kill your ramen
  • 1              Egg (optional — I’m not crazy, honest)

IIIIIIIIIIINSTRUCTIIIIONS:

  1. Alright, so, take your onion and garlic and saute them in a small pot. A little caramelization (you know, when an onion gets all brown ‘cause you kinda sorta burnt it in a tasty way) won’t hurt, but try not to overdo it.
  2. Add your water, bouillon, veggies and your tamari/soy, curries and miso and let it chill at a simmer until your bouillon cubes are dissolved and/or your veggies are fork tender. It’s alright if they’re a little under; we still have some things to do.
  3. Dump in your noodles. Stir them around. Crack and drop in your egg and make sure it’s covered. You’re pretty much poaching it, which isn’t nearly as gross and weird as it sounds. Trust me. It’s freaking delicious.
  4. Cook all that at a nice simmer for five-six minutes or until your noodles are soft and your egg is cooked.
  5. EAT IT.

This is kind of a sort of blasphemous recipe, combining Japanese and Thai flavor profiles. But, what can I say, American cookery is a melting pot. Those two styles are probably some of my favorites to play on, though. I had a friend whose mother was off-the-boat Thai and I learned a TON from her, so it sneaks into most of my Asian dishes.

Anyhow, I hope you all enjoy it!

Bacon, out.

*Stock is ridiculously easy to make and pretty much takes no money whatsoever (if fact it may save you money) and I will totally post how to make it if anyone’s curious because it’s actually kind of awesome.

**I used mung bean noodles in mine, but you could use Chinese-style noodles, rice noodles or whatever you feel like.

Tasty Tuesdays: In Which we have Hot Chocolate Oatmeal

So, because my videos normally don’t fit the theme of my blog, I’m going switch up my Tuesday posts. Might as well share the chefy love, right? Anyhow, I’ll start off with something very simple, but tasty. If you have any questions about ingredients, substitutions or whatever, please comment!

I don’t have a picture because I’m lame. BUT IT LOOKS AND IS DELICIOUS. (Trust me.)

Stuff for a single serving:

  • 1/4 cup Oatmeal
  • 3 tbsp Coco Powder*
  • 1/4-1/2 tsp Cinnamon (depending on your preference)
  • A Few Drops Vanilla Extract
  • 1 tbs Sugar of your choice (or to taste)**
  • 1/2-1 cup Milk/yogurt of you choice*** (optional-ish — you may want to lessen the coco power it you go without)
  • Nuts, seeds, dried berries, whatever (optional)

INSTRRRRUCTIONS:

Microwave:

  1. Toss the first six ingredients in a cereal bowl. Mix it up a bit, but it won’t get all up in there because cold liquid don’t like them thar powders.
  2. Microwave according to the package instructions on your oatmeal. Or just throw it in the microwave an guess like me.
  3. BAM, OATMEAL. Add your milk and fun stuff, stir the crud out of it and eat it before it gets cool because cold oatmeal is nasty.

Stove-stop:

  1. Take the water and oatmeal and cook according to package instructions. Or just throw it in a pot an cook it till it seems alright like me.
  2. Mix in the next four ingredients. Insert something funny/sarcastic/sassy here.
  3. Throw in everything else, mix well and BAM, OATMEAL

Also, whipped cream/marshmallows would be killer on this. Please someone do this because I can’t and I eat through other people now.

Bacon, out.

*I put a 1/4 cup in mine because I love chocolate a lot.

**I’m on a diet where I can’t have sugar without intense pain. Yeah, it sucks. So I use two packets of Stevia to sweeten this and I’m guesstimating what the regular population would like.

***Can’t have dairy, either. Nope, no clue how I’m surviving this. I use kefir in mine because probiotics are win.

Tales of the Kitchen – In Which There is Orange Poop

Gotcha with that title, didn’t I?

Anyhow, so today at work we started talking about alcohol. First because Michelle (fellow baker) was invited to one of our wine dinners which is kinda awesome because they’re really expensive and fancy and stuff. (I know, you so want to go after that excellent description.) Then we learned that my boss, who we’ll call Trisha, doesn’t really like exotic foods of any sort. Not even anything slightly different. Like the dark meat of a chicken which, I’m gonna be honest, left me a big like:

I was a snobby chef before I was a baker, it’s a knee-jerk reaction, I can’t help it.

Then that somehow lead to mentioning that my twenty-first birthday was coming up and they, knowing I’m the weird goody two-shoes of the kitchen, started giving me their worst alcohol stories.

During this, Michelle randomly announces, “So don’t drink green beer. Ever.”

I start giggling because I had no idea green beer existed, and when you wake up at two a.m., everything is hilarious. But Trisha asks, “Why?”

“Because my roommate in college was a bit of a drinker, and one St Patty’s day she went out and had quite a few green beers. She says the next day she had a bright, neon orange poop.”

At which point I bent down squatting laughing so hard.

I mean, all I can imagine is some, like, glowing alien thing chilling in your toilet.

Can anyone confirm or deny this? Because I’m too afraid to Google it and I NEED TO KNOW.

K. Kazul Wolf