Sand and Tacos

"Variety is the spice of life".

One of the oldest clichés in the book. it's strange to think about, I've been in Southern California now for about... 3 weeks? I'm more comfortable now, however I'm still adjusting. I'm now working for my best friend's mom on a very temporary basis. However I feel like she wants me to work more full time. Well, both of them. I'm still not sure I want to make that commitment. I just got confirmation that my grant application was being considered, and part of me really wants to pursue that. However, I did tell V that I would be here as long as she needed me. It's just odd trying to strike a balance between what I think she needs and what I know I need.
I had something resembling a life up in Northern California. Now I have something resembling a life in Southern California. Both have their high points, I love the spaciousness and the quiet of Northern California. After 6 years in Atlanta, it was a refreshing, revitalizing break. Being back down in Ventura, after a less-than-admirable first visit, I really am loving this entire downtown beachy area. I love the laid-back atmosphere. And seeing as I'm only working a few days a week, I'm finding that I have a lot of time to myself. I'm not used to that.

It would be far easier to pursue culinary aspects up north. However it almost feels as though the South needs it more. Is that odd to say? After all, Los Angeles is one of the biggest food cities in the country. However when the surrounding "suburbs" are full of trash food like Taco Bell and Jack in the Box, what am I supposed to think? At least around Northern California, their better restaurants are still surrounded by really good produce and locally-conscious farmers.

I wish the right options were obvious. I'm really hoping they become so in the next few weeks. In the meantime... Beach tacos.

BEACH TACOS

Flour taco shells

Filling:
Fish fillets
1tsp cumin
Lime juice
Red pepper flakes
1tsp honey
Salt & Pepper
Torn cilantro
Coconut oil

Topping:
Shaved cabbage
Julienned zucchini
Julienned mango
Olive oil
Apple cider vinegar

Directions:
Filling:
Heat a small amount of coconut oil in a sautee pan. Sprinkle the seasonings over the fish filets, then sear them in the pan.
Topping:
Toss the cabbage, zucchini, and mango with splashes of olive oil and vinegar.
Assembly:
Really? It's a fucking taco. Figure it out and put it in your face-hole.

A Tale of Two Civilizations

I've had an exciting almost two months! December and the holidays flew by with minimal fanfare,  and once January hit, I  shook things up a bit more.

I have a good friend, V. I have known this girl my entire life, she is one of a small handful of girls I really truly trust. In the beginning of January,  she got in touch- she was engaged to a guy who has enlisted in the Marines. He is currently in boot camp, and she was having a rough time adjusting. Now, she and I are both Marine Corps brats- we grew up in the military lifestyle. So, if she's having a hard time, I'm going to be there. She asked me to visit her in Southern California, so I quit my job and moved down for a bit. (I take this "friends" business seriously. )

I did not realize just how much of a hippie NorCal had made me. I had gotten so used to readily available fresh, local produce, friendly neighbors and proprietors,  and fresh air. Down here, I am far more aware of judgemental suburban stares, botox everywhere, and grocery stores grating on meine nerven. I don't mind it, I know it's only temporary, but it did have me feeling lost for a while. My saving grace was finding Underwood Hills Farmer's Market. And their PYGMY GOATS. OH MY GOD THE PYGMY GOATS. Cutest furry twats on the planet. I am in love with those suckers.

I can't even pretend I know what I want to do when I grow up. However, this latest adventure back into civilization has given me major insight into what makes me happy. So, I applied to the James Beard Foundation Women in Culinary Leadership grant in order to hopefully educate myself to hopefully educate others on how not to depend on Del Taco five nights a week. And if I can one day own a small parcel of land and raise pygmy goats? Being around that much adorable will make me the happiest woman on goddamn Earth.

I won't hear back about the grant for a few weeks or so. But until then, I've been cooking more. This is a fun lamb recipe I concocted while I've been going stir crazy!

Herbed Roast Lamb Leg

Chopped Tarragon
Chopped Rosemary
Chopped Shallots
Salt and Pepper
Boneless lamb leg, tied or netted into an even roast shape
Merlot

Set your oven for 350 degrees farenheit. Lay the lamb in a roasting pan, fatty side up. Chop enough herbs and shallots to completely cover the outside of the lamb, and rub them in with the salt and pepper. Douse that sucker in about 2 cups of merlot. Roast for about an hour and fifteen minutes, adding 2 more cups of merlot about a half hour into the process. The lamb is done when its internal temp is 140. Let it rest, covered, for 10 minutes prior to carving. Use any leftover liquid in the pan as a sauce.

This shit is delicious with a pomegranate-arugula salad and cous cous.

Season of Giving

Living in a van, one of my biggest concerns is the cops. Many towns have ordinances against sleeping in vehicles, and I try to base where I camp in areas that don't have those, or at least have loopholes (Wal-Mart lots are convenient for that). Small towns especially tend to have bored cops, and I have yet to meet a member of the police forces that doesn't err on the side of dickbaggery when bored.

I've been playing it safe lately, keeping it at the restaurant I work at (with the owner's permission), with zero fuss. The neighbors either haven't noticed or don't care, and it's been very peaceful.

This morning was a tad different.

I awoke, curled under my comforter, warm and cozy and pantsless (my van, my rules dammit). My dog, Clooney, was sitting next to me, just staring and willing me to wake up for our walk. Mentally swearing at him, I begin to contemplate actually getting out of bed.

And there's a knock on the van door.

I immediately begin to mentally freak. It's 8am, it has to be the cops, but why would they be here? It's private property, the owner knows I'm here and I have permission and Jesus Christ I'll just pretend I'm not here.

The damn dog barks. Fuck.

Now I HAVE to answer, or some do-gooder animal lover will break into my car citing animal cruelty against this fat spoiled fur ball. I say as nonchalantly as possible, "Just a minute!"

Hiking on a pair of sweatpants, I climb up to the passenger cab door- the side doors don't open from the inside at the moment. Opening the door, my panic immediately washes to relief when I see it's a local that I've met before, when I was hanging with the Barista. And he recognized me.

His surprise was very apparent, and we had a slightly strained conversation. Not in a bad way, but you could kind of tell he wasn't expecting to see someone he had met as a functional human being living in a van. Turns out he's one of my neighbors, just a couple doors away, and he was kind enough to leave me with a bag of odds and ends foodstuffs and an invitation to coffee or tea should I ever feel like it.

Encounters like that are weird for me. On the one hand, I haven't exactly made it very public that I live in a van around town. I want to be known as a person before I'm known for my circumstances. But it is a small town, and I can't be surprised that people will put two and two together. And some will immediately conclude that I may require charity. My pride is intensely uncomfortable with that. I ask favors from friends that I know I will repay in time, I have a running tally in my head of the myriad of people I owe. However, kindness that is intended without reciprocation is just fucking weird to me. After all, I am always the one who makes things happen, I help others. I can't let this insult me, regardless of my vanity. After all, my brain keeps reminding me, "Bitch, you live in a van. Deal with it."

...Not sure how my neighbor expects me to cook a baby pumpkin in a van, though. Bless his heart. :)

Humanist Rant

I was elated. I hopped out of the Schwartz,  the battered old piece of shit van that it is, and squealed for joy. *I* had just fixed a major wiring problem!  All by myself!  (Ok, sure, a wire had just jiggled loose and I reconnected it, but considering that one wire controlled everything electronic in the thing, starter motor included? I am fucking proud of that!) I had parked outside of work, and was about to warn the owner that the van was staying put for a few days until I was able to take it to a repair shop next Tuesday.  One of the bartenders saw me first.

"Holy shit!" He exclaimed, clearly shocked, "You're a girl!"

"Last time I checked!" I am wearing a skirt and knee-high black boots today with a flattering turtleneck sweater. Not the usual jeans-tshirt-apron-bandanna look he was used to.

"Are you sick? On the run? Do you need an alibi?"

Sigh.

That one little convo has been repeated in my life more than anything should be. It has only recently began to bother me because frankly, after 11 years' in this industry,  why is it still surprising? 

I recently read 'Blood, Bones, and Butter' by Chef Gabrielle Hamilton, and finally found a chef I can relate to out of the countless memoirs I've read. She, like myself, got into this industry by accident. She, like myself, has stayed because we don't know how to really do anything else  (well, she's an amazing writer, but she's also got a few years on me. Lucky her.). And she,  much like  myself, could not figure out why in the fuck being a woman in commercial kitchens is still a discussion point.

It dawned on me today, and this spans all industries,  that people have ceased to discern the difference between People and Careers. Van living has driven home a personal belief of mine that I do not ultimately want to be defined by my Career, but by how I have lived. The trouble with this, however, is I am constantly being evaluated by my feild of work. I am a Cook. I am a Server. I am a Beer Store Clerk. I am a Manager. I am a Chef.

No.

I am a Human Being. You are a Human Being. Everyone is a Human Being.

Yes, certain stereotypes can be made in various career feilds. However, at the end of the day, if I choose to wear skirts and pick flowers or do other girly shit, it is because I AM A HUMAN BEING THAT ENJOYS THOSE THINGS. I am an accidental chef out of a passion for food and a decent dose of spite acquired by working in the industry. The discussion should not be, "How has being a woman in ex-and-such feild affected the status quo", and it definitely shouldn't be a pissing contest between genders. The discussion needs to be, "As a human being, are you capable of the work, and do you enjoy it?" Otherwise, it opens the door for overblown Michelin-starred assholes to discredit an entire portion of the workforce (I'm not bothering to link that article because frankly, fuck that guy) and for shit like GamerGate to be a thing (Google it if you want to lose your faith in people entirely ).

I am a chef. I am also a girl, a friend, a lover, a collegue, a bit obscene, and polite to people whom I respect. I will continue to live exactly as I deem fit, career be damned. And I hope, for all that is right in the world, People figure out that They are worth far more than whatever price their Career has assigned them.

Chopped

I fucking called it.

No good comes from a position unintentionally given.

I found out tonight that the restaurant owners rehired not only their old chef back, but the entire old kitchen staff. All of whom walked out on them the first time around.

I am not about to play this game. I am so sick and tired of working for restaurants that are run by idiots. The few restaurants where I actually respected the management are all located in states I have no desire to live in, and frankly this is the last straw I had for cooking professionally.

I am staying long enough to find employment ANYWHERE else doing ANYTHING else. My knives are only coming out for people I actually like. I am too old to be bothering with this nonsense when I've seen enough places fail because of stupidity.