Yak Butter with a Side of Bison

I was walking, crunching steps, on the freshly packed snow at the foot of Jackson Hole’s ski mountain one morning last week. It was bright out, the sun shining after a night of snowfall; the whiteness hurt my eyes. The air was crisply cold; a gentle mist of snow was tossed up by the skiers frequently flying by towards the close base lodge. I was following a bright red coat in front of me, walking in a small group of fashionably dressed women. My dad and step-mom take a trip out west every year to ski with a group of their friends. My brother, step-brother, step-sisters and I often come along. Despite the fact that I couldn’t ski (tragic in the face of all that powder) because of my knee, I went to Wyoming for some not often had family time.

During the day, however, I found myself in an oddly formed group of fellow non-skiers, mainly stylish career moms married to the more fanatical powder hounds. Our group ‘walks’ mainly hovered around the cluster of shops near the hill. It was an interesting jump into an unaccustomed slice of life for me, being 20 years younger and infinitely less monetarily endowed. I had, in the end, a good deal of thinking time in the company of my misplaced self. My mind wandered in disjointed musings while on these walks, the smallest comment inspiring a multitude of thoughts.

One morning I met up with my fellow non-skiers, my bright orange shoulder bag dangling in my hand, prepared to later plant myself in a coffee shop with a book.

That’s a nice bag, Molly, said one woman, ripe in a lime green fur-lined parka and Burberry scarf. It’s very bright. Um, very bright. A small frown of disapproval.

Yes, Molly, very bright, said another. Her white fur lined parka glistened against the snowy background. Very earthy. It looks… Tibetan. You look… Tibetan. Eyebrows raised. Did you buy that there? Have you… been to Tibet?

I could see that ‘Tibetan’ was not meant, really, to be a compliment.

Thanks, I said smiling. But this bag is from Italy.

***

The small room was filled with smoke. The evening light was fading; only a trickle reaching us through the gaping hole in the roof. The hazy darkness filled the space, pushing against the dirt floor and walls, flickering hesitantly around the small cooking fire in the center of the room. I could hardly see the people surrounding me. Their talk was quiet, a melodious harmony of a Tibetan dialect that I could barely register. A heavy black pot of boiling water added its steam to the already viscous air. There were children; I smiled as they crouched behind their mother’s backs, confused by my new presence. There were women; dark skin toughened by the sun, dark hair wrapped tightly on their heads, traditional deep red chupa dresses were draped around their earthy bodies. They smiled, laughed, exclaimed and whispered. They looked at me intently, touched my large curly head of hair curiously. Small postcards of Buddhist gods, larger ones of the Dalai Lama were perched by the walls. Chipped china cups clinked; the small blanket I was sitting on was hard. I was overwhelmed.

It was July of 2000, and along with six other American students and two ex-Peace Corp members, I had spent three weeks backpacking up rocky paths into the mountain range of Nepal’s Dolpo region. We were in a land without roads or runways, too high for easy helicopter travel, most often traveled by yak herders and foot-bound salt traders. We reached a small village close to the Tibetan border after a good deal of freeze-dried chili and a slow trudge over an airless, 18,000 foot pass. It was one of the few remaining communities of pure Tibetan culture and language, untouched by the Chinese, protected by Nepal’s boundaries. Each member of the group was ceremoniously deposited with a local family in a small, stilted hut. We were intensively submerged in rural Tibetan farm culture for a few weeks while we taught English in the local school. I spoke close to zero Tibetan; it was my first time manning a classroom. We were some of the first foreigners to visit the village. My white skin and glow-in-the-dark wrist watch were alarming to those around me. That first night near the smoky fire of my host family was one of confused communication and the constant patter of gentle anxiety somewhere near my lungs.

That first evening, lost in the haze of smoky Tibetan chatter, I watched as a small blue cup, steaming with frothy tan liquid, was placed in front of me on the protective stone of the fire ring. Next to it a matching bowl was clanked down, filled with a light brown powdery flour.

The men of the village, mainly salt merchants, were on their annual trading pilgrimage across the border to Tibet and I was in a world of women. A small group of them clustered around the fire in my host-family’s hut; they stopped what they were doing and looked at me intently. I knew I was supposed to do something. I knew, from the instruction of my Peace Corp leaders, that it was a special guest’s honor to be served first. In that subtle realm of politeness, it was imperative that I finish with relish the food given to me. And so I clasped the cup, smelling a strikingly savory odor in its loud steam. Thu-chi che, I said; Thank you. The women giggled, watching. I took a sip. It was tea, but oh what a tea. My eyes watered, my mouth shocked by the unexpected intensity. It was my first, but certainly not my last, taste of the Tibetan staple. Yak Butter Tea - salted black tea churned with a thick chunk of yak butter.

The brawny, altitude-loving yak has withstood the difficult living situation of the Tibetan plateau for centuries in a way no vegetable ever could. Therefore, a huge hunk of the culinary tradition there hinges on that hairy animal. Over time, I became intimately acquainted with all sorts of yak products. Yak beef, yak cloth, yak-hair rope, yak cheese, yak milk, yak jerky, yak hide, yak labor, and of course, yak butter. Six years later, I still clearly remember the shock of my first slick gulp. The texture of its thickly coating bulk coupled with the salty tang of its uncommon butter makes for an alarmingly unexpected tea experience.

I smiled widely, though, hiding my initial distaste with an overwhelming show of gratitude. The women around me clapped with excitement. I felt happy. Everyone else began to eat; my attention refocused on the bowl of flour in front of me. Without some kind of visual lead I never would have been able to consume that bowl of tsampa with any kind of grace. Tsampa, a roasted barley ground into flour, is another staple of Tibetan diet in the Nepalese region I was in. I watched as my host-mother, her newborn baby girl cradled deftly in her lap, poured some of her thick tea into the bowl of tsampa, creating a more congealed, dough-like conglomeration. She ate it with her fingers, my eyes watching her every move. I imitated her, sucking the flour off of my fingers. It tasted nutty and dry, sticking slightly to the roof of my mouth, bland without the salty tea.

After a week of little beyond the yak butter tea and tsampa I was more than ready to never lay eyes on the combination again. But that first night, surrounded by a strange culture, crackling fire and giggling children, yak butter and barley flour felt like a strangely celebratory entrance into an unknown world.

I left that village in Dolpo with priceless teaching experience, a smattering of Tibetan language knowledge, a dire need for donuts, and a deeply embedded respect for the women I lived with. I have never seen such hard workers. I watched them working from dawn til dusk in the fields, eyes watering constantly from the smoky cooking fire, subsisting on little more than butter and flour. Even Lahkpa, my 8-year-old host sister, worked with amazing diligence, caring for her newborn baby sister. She walked me to school every morning even though her duties kept her from attending, her short black hair tussled, her little sister strapped to her back with a large, dirt stained cloth. The constant companion of Lhakpa’s crooked smile is something I will never forget. She was always smiling, laughing. Always singing and moving. Perhaps yak butter does more for you than the initial cringe would suggest.

***

Despite the time I have had in the last few months, I was surprised during my stay in Wyoming last week to feel as if I was finally able to think – to think about things far removed from health, doctors, future plans. I was pleased by the turns in my memory; I had not thought about Nepal or Tibet in a long time. Jackson Hole itself was accompanied by a grand number of buffalo burgers and elk steaks. Bison carpaccio was an interesting jump into the unknown for me. But nothing, certainly, could rival that past novelty of tsampa and yak butter. Wyoming couldn’t give me any yak butter tea, but it did give me a calm chunk of time to think (and a newfound love of chandeliers made with antlers, of course).

The Power of the Truffle

A bright copper pan was gently placed on the portable burner, perched on a cart, silently wheeled to the edge of our table. The tall, gray-haired waiter wearing a hefty black jacket and white apron synched around the girth of his belly dropped a generous dollop of butter onto the pan. As it melted, bubbling yellow, he picked up a shining metal instrument and a small bobble of bulbous black. In a theatrically rehearsed gesture, he slowly shaved the coveted black truffle over the sizzling butter. He lifted the heavy top off of another nearby pan, exposing a mound of freshly made, steaming pasta. The slithering strings of egg noodles were ceremoniously dropped into the truffled butter, tossed slowly and fastidiously over the low flame until the entire dish gleamed. The pasta landed with a calm flop onto an enormous white plate, placed neatly in front of the wide-eyed Charley, my mother’s hungry boyfriend. The waiter smiled as he shaved a bit more dark truffle on top. I drank the unforgettable, earthy aroma of truffles into my very pores. That pasta was not even something that I had ordered; I probably passed over the simple dish for something more complicated, something of which I have no memory. I did help Charley clean his plate, however. And that meal certainly stands out in my mind.

The rich aroma and deep flavor of truffles – mainly the scorzone estivo, or mild black truffle, harvested largely in the Umbrian countryside of Italy during the summer months – were constant companions in my trip this past August. A truffle-studded pecorino cheese with crusty bread and red wine for a tipsily picnic lunch; a light, crispy pizza bubbling from the wood-fired oven and covered in light, sliced truffle; truffle paste on crackers, shaved over pasta, prancing through my sun-induced afternoon dreams. Even while hiking each day through the crackling Umbrian woods, my eyes were constantly drawn to small neon-yellow rectangles of plastic perched on long metal skewers, nestled alongside the trails at regular intervals. Raccolata Tartufi Reservata, they said, humming with possibility. We were in truffle hunting grounds. There are truffles everywhere, I often told myself. Never really having experienced that uniquely earth-bound flavor before that trip, I thought of them with awe. I was surprised and delighted by their abundance. I loved imagining their delicacy constantly underfoot in the woods, on my plate in restaurants.

***

And so in the last few months, glancing at the small glass jar perched hauntingly on the window sill of my kitchen, its red cap softly shadowing a luscious black Umbrian truffle, I have felt a wave of sadness. The flavor of truffle, I can only imagine, comes mainly from its unique aroma. After all, around 70% of taste is appreciated through smell. An odorless truffle cannot stand alone. I would not go anywhere near the thing. Being physically close to that truffle, thinking even a tiny bit about what I had wanted to use it for made me angry. It represented the proof of my loss of smell. And this, somewhere in the back of my mind, felt as if it rendered my trip to Italy invalid. It made that wonderful time cease to exist. I didn’t move the jar, though; I didn’t want to touch it. That poor little truffle, still sitting so calmly on the window, took a lot of mental heat for things it had nothing to do with this fall.

The truffle and I, however, are now on better footing. We seem to have made some progress. Perhaps even a glimpse of friendship lurking close by.

I spent New Year’s weekend in New York City. A few days of friends, museums and champagne; it was boisterous, fun, far from being injured. I even wore heels (quite a feat after the past months of limping around Boston I must say). And on that Friday night my friend John and I went out for a cozy dinner in Little Italy. We split a bronzed pizza, gooey with mozzarella and mushrooms, sprinkled with rosemary and truffle oil. Delicious in its own right, of course. But when a vivid image of that large, truffle-shaving Italian waiter immediately came to mind as I chewed, swallowed and slowly exhaled, I knew it was a bit more than that. I could taste the truffle; a rich, familiarly earthy aroma traveled from the depth of my throat out through my nose. It tasted like Italy; it fairly tingled with possibility.

***

Recently I’ve been thinking about my smells that have returned. The scents that I can detect most strongly these days are all tied to meaning greater than a simple odor. The fruity tang of wine is a thousand memories of friends, family, travel and cooking tied up in each sip. Rosemary’s smell blew through my consciousness even more frequently in Italy than that of truffles; the wildly growing rosemary bushes perfumed my hair, clothes, thoughts. The subtle perfume of soap, one of the first odors I regained, is the comforting familiarity of daily clean. The scents of chocolate, coffee and cinnamon, slowly coming back around to my olfactory registration, immediately conjure up thoughts of home, winter evenings with my mom. Truffles have become Italy; a country I fell in love with while studying art history in Florence, a place I’ll always return to. And I can’t help but wonder why I am so lucky as to get back the smells that mean the most to me. It is as if my emotions, memories and thoughts (however unconscious) are influencing the speed and strength of my olfactory neuronal growth. A strange thought; one that my mother the psychoanalyst finds strikingly interesting and one that I would love to be true. If I think about it really hard, perhaps I’ll soon stumble onto the smell of freshly baked bread, warm out of the oven. If my subconscious has the power to reinstate the truffle, truly anything is possible.

A Finalist in the Food Blog Awards!

I recently found out that I was nominated and am now a finalist for Best Writing in the 2005 Food Blog Awards. I am surprised (and exceptionally excited) – thank you to all who nominated (and all who vote for) my little blog. I’m up against some big contenders in this category and feel quite honored to be amongst such wonderful writers. Vote away!

my favorite dishwasher

I was expecting a call from my father, my cell phone balancing expectantly on my knee as my mother and I drove the icy road to Vermont on Christmas Eve. When the clanging ring sliced through our festive background music of Handel’s Messiah, I picked up the phone quickly, ready to fill my dad in on the results of my week at UConn Taste and Smell Center. But instead of his usual loud phone greeting, I heard a crackling static and a quiet, Molly? Hola? Molly?

Yes? I asked, hesitantly, vaguely aware of the familiarity in the voice.

Molly? Hola! Como estas? And then it hit me; who else would call me speaking in a gentle Spanish? It was S., my dishwashing partner from the Bistro that I worked in this summer, a surprise call on a snowy Christmas weekend. I yelled out his name with an excitement that startled my driving mother, babbling my happiness at hearing his voice in an extremely incongruous Spanish-English-Italian mix. I had not spoken to him since my last day of work, over four months ago.

I surprised myself with the ease in which I could eventually switch to Spanish. Despite my meager understanding of the language, the majority of my vocabulary hinging on words pertaining to dishwashing, we had a working conversation. I filled him in on my accident, lightly, without much detail; he was shocked and delighted that I am now ok. He told me that The Chef is still loco y enojado; J. was fired a few months ago (as well as four other dishwashers who came one by one to replace me). S. is still in the dark hallway of the bistro’s prep arena every night, washing those heavy white dishes and chopping mounds of garlic and onions. It was somehow shocking to realize that the life I lead this summer still continues, simply without me there.

He recently acquired a phone, luckily having saved the phone number that I handed him on my last night of work in August. He called to say Feliz Navidad and to see how I was. I was touched to hear his voice, to hear his concern, to remember the unexpected connection of friendship that we made despite our difference in background and future.

Before hanging up, he softly, with clear intonation said Es bueno que usted no es un lavaplatos. Pero tu era mi favorito companero de trabajo. He never did understand why I was washing dishes with him, never thought it was a good idea for the chica pequena to haul piles of plates all hours of the night. He is glad that I no longer live that life. But the fact that I was his favorite gives me a glow of pride. I was surprised by his call; it hit me like the sudden shot of steam coming out of the bistro’s sanitizer door after a mountain of pots and pans were fitted in for cleaning. Except, I suppose, this burst of steam didn’t come into an exhausted face in a 112 degree kitchen at 2am. It was a deluge of comforting warmth on a chilly winter afternoon. I’m happy to know S. is doing well and that we have the ability to continue our mismatched friendship. It’s a good thought with which to bring in the New Year.

the unexpected scent of chocolate

I spent much of the week before Christmas at the UConn Health Center. A daily four hour commute of dry heat shooting up from the floorboard vents of my car, the constant sound of NPR swirling through the back of my mind, half-formed thoughts circling around my nose, and the muted color palette of leafless trees flitting past the frozen windows. Each morning, as I took exit 39 off of that bleak Interstate 84, a gnawing claw began in the pit of my stomach, growing in sensation as my car slowly wound its way up to the gigantic hospital perched on a hill. The UConn Health Center Hospital is a forbidding mass of gray, high up and alone, lording over the landscape. It reminded me of the Emerald City, far in the distance on my journey to Oz.

Inside that concrete castle is the small lair of the UConn Taste and Smell Center (cheerfully decorated with a battalion of cardboard Santas). There are only a few of these specialized centers concentrating on things such as loss of smell due to head trauma in the US; I’m lucky one exists close by. In my days there I was tested by neurologists, dentists, ENTs, surgeons and internists. I spent hours swishing clear liquids from miniature plastic cups around my mouth, each one a different strength of ‘bitter’ ‘salty’ ‘sweet’ or ‘sour’, to test my taste buds. I rated each of the seventy flavors on a scale of 1 (weak, a hint of salt lurking in the back of my mouth) to 10 (strong, almost gagging on the overpowering bitter of quinine). I breathed in deeply while puffing air from mystery bottles up my nose, trying to decipher which had the aroma of strong chemical and which was odorless (virtually impossible for me to tell). I sniffed mystery jars of familiar food smells, touched my finger to my nose, walked a straight line, said ahhh as they peered down my throat, grimaced as they inspected my teeth and tongue. They looked at my cranial MRI and sinus CT scans from last week, the multitude of head x-rays from the accident. They drizzled blue drops into my nostrils, causing me to lose feeling in my nose and mouth, while they stuck a long devise practically up to my brain, looking for unknown obstructions.

And in the end, after a bleary 5am drive in the darkness of Friday morning and long final inspection, they gave me their final report. The head doctor, an elderly man with soft wrinkles and a piercingly sharp gaze, looked at me for a moment, silent and sincere. Just when I began to feel uncomfortable he gave me a gentle smile and said Work is therapy, Molly. Stay busy.

I was confused by his response. Confused and a bit deflated. But it soon became clear that the solution to this problem is nothing but time.

The olfactory nerve, they explained with the help of colorfully simplified medical diagrams, is studded with small neurons that curl off to connect the nose and transfer the smell sensations to the brain. When I was hit by the car and fractured my skull, my brain bounced roughly in my head. Those small smell neurons were most likely severed in the trauma. Optimistic, however, was a word often used. They are optimistic my smell will return; my olfactory neurons will re-grow. The fact that I can smell a bit, greatly improved from the time of the accident, is a wonderful sign. The fact that I sometimes smell things that aren’t there (phantom smells, they call them) means that my nerve is already beginning to rebound. But this is a long process. Two to five years, they said. Perhaps even as many as seven.

A younger doctor bouncing energetically around the office smiled at me with confidence. I couldn’t take my eyes off of the bright red and green tie emblazoned with a cartoon Grinch in a red santa hat, nestled behind the stethoscope on his chest. If you had to damage a nerve, this was the best one to choose, he said softly as I tore my eyes away from his holiday get-up. Of all the nerves in your body, this one tries the hardest to regenerate.

And so I left Connecticut, driving directly to Vermont for the holidays, the official medical opinion about my smell ringing in my ears. Wait and see. Seven years from now. Optimism. Time. Olfactory regeneration.

And truthfully, I feel wonderful. As much as I would have loved to hear that my smell would be back in a few months without problem, I now feel buoyed up with hope. The official diagnosis of experts in the field of taste and smell has taken a huge weight off my shoulders. I know, now, what to expect. I understand what has happened and what needs to happen. I no longer feel in the dark. I am filled with possibility. The last of my large medical events is over and now all that’s left is the time to make a new plan.

It has been hard for me to write in the last few months, not sure of where my body, smell and general future stood. But things have cleared since the culmination of my smell evaluation, a fog evaporated from my mind. I spent the holidays in Vermont with my family and for the first time in months I felt that familiar passion to write, no longer needing to force myself to type. I curled up for hours in an armchair next to the constantly crackling fire and finally was able to write without painful effort.

The timeframe of olfactory regrowth forces me to look at the future with a new mindset. My plans are slowly moving away from the CIA and restaurant work. I am no longer going to work in the Bakery. I am thinking about other options, other things that I am passionate about. This certainly does not mean I am giving up my love of food and all that is culinary. But my body has changed; smell, taste and the subsequent ability to work in the food world are hovering somewhere in the distance. Instead of fighting the inevitable, feeling lost and unavoidably depressed in a kitchen where I cannot fully operate, I will be morphing my plans to cooperate with my body. How exactly? I’m not sure. It will be interesting and a bit confusing, certainly. Always accompanied here with writing and food, of course. It looks to involve a one-way ticket to New York City in the near future. And it will without a doubt be different than I expected.

***

One morning in the UConn Taste and Smell Center, I sat perched on a stool in the office of a lanky, bearded doctor. He was twisting open white plastic jars, their mystery contents covered in thick cheesecloth, and sticking them under my nose. I held one nostril closed at a time, testing each side of my nose in measured sniffs. Each jar held an invisible but familiar scent – woodchips, coffee, cinnamon, rubber, soap and jam to name just a few. The majority of jars whisked under my nose contained no odor for me. It was a large procession of scentless containers. But just when I was beginning to feel overly frustrated (and a bit short of breath with all the deep breathing), an unmistakable smell came bursting out of a jar through my right nostril with unabashed aggression. That’s CHOCOLATE, I practically screamed at the doctor, jumping to my feet in excitement. He looked at me, obviously shocked.

Chocolate? he asked, incredulously. You can smell that?

Yes, I said gleefully. He had me sniff again with the right side of my nose. Yup. That’s chocolate. He smiled and then had me sniff with my left nostril. My shoulders sunk, momentarily defeated. No, I can’t smell anything on that side.

The doctor looked off into space, thinking. He looked perplexed, yet the sides of his mouth were curved in a small but unmistakable smile.

This is unexpected, he said. Generally chocolate is not an odor that those who cannot smell first pick-up on. Very unexpected. But no matter what, even if only through your right nostril, this is wonderful.

And I felt like doing a little dance right there in that pristinely scrubbed doctor’s office. The taste of chocolate, the doctor told me, is almost entirely dependent on smell. Without the ability of my right nostril, chocolate would be nothing but a texture. And so, in the largely decimated field of my olfactory neurons, the one for chocolate stands strong. It’s a fighter, hanging in there despite its loneliness. Joined by the rosemary neuron and occasionally the soap and wine crew, this small band of my favorite neurons have most deliciously decided to stick around. So I’m happy. Unexpected, yes. All of this is unexpected. But my neurons and I will happily re-grow. And chocolate will certainly help.

The Distraction of Puff Pastry

There is a small frame resting unobtrusively on the end of the front counter of the bakery. It is clear plastic, unassuming in its simplicity. It holds a picture of a smiling woman, dark-haired and cheery eyed. She has a compelling grin; it fairly exudes a large, flavorful personality. Her gaze is enveloping. Underneath the small photo there is a delicately placed yellow slip of paper, studded with a dark type. When each customer who notices leans in closely to read, a small sigh is often released from a softened pair of lips. It is a dedication to The Baker’s wife, who died three years ago in a car accident.

Hugging her in the photo, his face snuggly set close to her rosy cheek, is The Baker. He looks younger, happier. Infinitely more alive. I watched him in the back of the bakery yesterday at work, his forehead crunched in anxious thought, his hands punching bread dough with vigor. The Baker often seems weighed down, a thin sheet of invisible parchment keeping him from laughing the way he means to, smiling more than a small grin. He is dampened, quiet. It does not seem like the art of bread is any kind of substitute for what he has lost.

There are moments, however, when his love of baking pops valiantly out of the characteristically closed facial expression, his eyebrows gyrating and cheeks scrunched into a bulbous smile. On Tuesday I spent the morning lost in the ritual of pastry dough preparation. I spent an hour rolling out dough for danishes, the thick buttery mass sliding serenely into cinnamon twisted rounds. I moved onto turnovers, systematically flattening and evening out squares of the thinner pastry, delicately folding them into triangles puffed with apple and cinnamon. After finishing and clearing my floury bench, The Baker stepped in with a mound of soft white. He cradled the plastic-wrapped package in his arms like a baby and plopped it down, looking at me expectantly.

This, Molly, is puff pastry. I make it from scratch every week. I nodded; it certainly did look puffy.

He began punching it down, showing me how to roll it out for tarts and quiche. There are so many places out there that buy it frozen. But this, this is fresh; this is amazing. Nothing beats fresh puff pastry. And I make it completely with butter. No shortening here. It makes all the difference.

There was a tingle in his voice, a playful smile on his face. I looked at him, surprised to hear the vivacity and excitement radiating from his persona. For a moment he didn’t even look like The Baker I have become so familiar with. He looked happy.

I can't help but feel that The Baker and I are somewhat the same. Amidst the soft, warm atmosphere of the bakery, we are both struggling with what we have lost. He appears to be grasping for something; the love of life that I feel sure was there before is now just beyond his reach. And I am trundling along, forever and frustratingly aware of my lack of smell and taste - a deeper understanding of the culinary is beyond the ability of my body right now. We both exist in a muted world; muffled happiness, taste-buds or both.

But based on the effusive compliments of the bakery’s customers, the pleasure of our baked goods is not obstructed by a thing for them. No matter what setbacks The Baker and I are personally working through at the moment, there will always be puff pastry.

New Culinary Rhythms

The day before Thanksgiving was punctuated by the constant background notes of Led Zeppelin, The Eagles and Lynyrd Skynyrd. The dusty black radio perched on a shelf in the bakery was switched from its usual soft classical twinkle to the more raucous, louder classic rock drawl. It was a one day phenomenon, a fitting marker for the hectic pre-Thanksgiving rush that began that Wednesday morning in the cold darkness of 4am. The crooning noise of Stairway to Heaven and Free Bird reverberated around the steamy room, inspiring me subconsciously to move with just a bit more bounce. Beethoven’s lyrical melodies leave me with a relaxed smile on my face as I delicately twist buttery dough into symmetrical rounds for Danish pastries. Bach conjures up images of crackling fires and windswept grain fields in the back of my mind as I roll out linzer dough to cut for holiday cookies. On that pre-holiday morning, however, The Rolling Stones gave me just a bit more oomph as I carted around stacks of pumpkin pies and frosted cakes with the speed of one who has a herd of turkeys nibbling at her feet.

The musical change in the bakery, surprising and short-lived as it was, is a good summation of my recent life. I’ve switched from a self-imposed classical slow to a more energetic rock of busy movement. Recovering at home after the accident was a calm (however depressing) endeavor, filled with quiet thought and slow healing. Since I discarded my crutches and began work in the bakery, my tune has changed. The bakery is a complicated balancing act of buttery pastry melodies. At home, Thanksgiving was a feast for 10; my mom and I stewed in the delicious (and minorly stressful) preparation of the aggressively planned meal. Butternut squash soup with brown butter and sage, roast turkey and sausage cornbread stuffing, sauteed beans with almonds, sweet potatoes with lime syrup, fresh cranberry sauce, apple and pumpkin pies, chocolate cake – they seemingly catapulted themselves out of the kitchen. Or perhaps that was just our laughingly wine-induced perception. And not even 48 hours later, still full of turkey, I had my first stint as a caterer.

About a month ago I received a phone call. A rusty, highly toned female voice: Hi Molly. I am a colleague of your mother’s - I have heard your story and today I had the privilege of trying the cookies you made for your mother to bring to our meeting. I was wondering if you would be interested in catering a lunch for me. Surprised (the oatmeal cookies I had made on a whim for the meeting were simple at best) yet happy, I heartily agreed to make up a menu and get back to her the next day. And I found myself last Saturday running around with pans of marinated salmon and plates of sugar-dusted almond cakes. Manchego cheese had been grated into oblivion, candied walnuts broken into small pieces for salad. There was a sizzle of asparagus and the softly cloying melt of the parmesan sprinkled on top. Hiding my fear of making a mistake with a calm smile and measured rhythmic gate in the kitchen, I plated fish and vegetables, garnished with a sprinkle of toasted seeds, a dollop of balsamic syrup. Molly, this is the best salmon I’ve ever had. My face, I’m pretty sure, lit up with exhausted glee.

In the midst of these wonderful new things in life, I can’t help but admit that I am frustrated. I am at times overwhelmingly disheartened by my lack of smell, the limping step of my left leg, my muted taste buds and the overwhelming exhaustion enveloping my body every evening when I fall into bed. A pang of annoyance resonates through the pit of my stomach with every exclamation of It smells amazing in here as customers waltz into the bakery. I would be lying if I said that my happiness and deep thankfulness (strong as they are) are not countered with those flutterings of frustration and annoyance. Perhaps this is because in my other life I would be moving to Hyde Park tomorrow, shaking with delicious anticipation of my first day at the CIA this weekend. But I am soldiering on; each dark moment is followed by one of light. Whether it is Led Zeppelin or Bach, I feel motivated by the new rhythms echoing in my life.

The Bakery

It was cold last Thursday; the fingers poking out of my jacket sleeves were numb. The sun was shining aggressively over the top of the row of buildings in front of me, burning my eyes. I walked slowly, a slight limp favoring my right leg. The air felt crisp; the grass lining the sidewalk was strikingly green. There was a knot in the pit of my stomach, butterflies fluttering up into my throat. I reached the long colorful strip of buildings snaking along the curve of the street, their brick bases blending in with the monotone shade of fallen leaves strewn onto the ground nearby. I opened the creaking wooden door on the corner and was immediately hit with a burst of light warmth. There were a handful of people milling about the room, peering enthusiastically into the glass cases filled with breads and pastries. Coffee cups steamed. The cheerfully brunette woman behind the cash register laughed raucously and greeted a man in a bright red sweater, clinking change and rustling paper bags simultaneously. I stepped carefully past the counter, through the arched doorway, and into the back room. I glanced around, taking in the stacks of ovens, racks of colorful cookies, stacks of earthy brown bread and cascade of metal mixers. I was looking for my new boss, the Baker.

I felt new, strange and uncertain of myself. I couldn’t understand my overwhelming feelings of hesitation. But walking into that light and airy room I was entering a new job, a new set of responsibilities. It is a concrete jump to take my life back into my own hands – to recover, accept and move on from what has happened to me this fall.

I plastered a smile on my face when the Baker came stomping up the stairs, a well-worn Red Sox hat balanced on his head. His shoulders slightly hunched, thick gray hair on his even skull and a pristine apron tied snugly over his slight stomach paunch. His eyes, creased with smile lines, are traced with sadness. He grinned, radiating kindness. We shook hands and chatted jovially as I outfitted myself in a white starched apron. The sunlight streamed into the large kitchen, a luxurious room inhabited only by the Baker and I. A small black radio was perched on a dusty shelf, spouting classical music into the air. The knot in my stomach gradually dissolved. It dissolved into the crates of apples I peeled and chopped, rhythmic and comforting in their simplicity. I buried myself happily in mounds of pie dough, gobs of flour and the delicate assemblage of thanksgiving pies.

I arrived home later that first day with aching hands and sore legs after hours on my feet. It was a familiar feeling, reminiscent of my last restaurant experience as a dishwasher and prep chef in a bistro this summer. I again lost myself in the slightly mind-numbing tasks of repetitive cleaning and chopping. I found myself dusting off the smattering of stale Spanish I had learned to have halting conversations with N, the dishwasher. I, however, washed not even a single dish. I felt strange at first asking the Baker the bevy of technical food questions that came to mind, but soon relaxed under his obvious desire to help with detailed answers. And I smiled to myself as I worked, awash with the melodies of Bach and Mozart, the whir of the mixer and the clank of the ovens.

I certainly didn’t expect to find myself making a plethora of pies, a deluge of pumpkin breads and a flood of almond macaroons that cold November morning. I still have to shake myself every so often, realizing with a sudden jolt that I am OK, that the worst is over. I am constantly surprised these days to be back in the work force, to be in a place I respect and enjoy, to be regaining my life. It is a wonderful feeling, worth a thousand apple pies.

Salsa, Rosemary and James Bond

When I was in elementary school I spent a lot of quality time with James Bond. On many a Sunday afternoon, my father and I cocooned ourselves in the sun dappled basement TV room with Dr. No, Live and Let Die, or my personal favorite, Goldfinger. Along with Tuesday night ice cream (soft serve chocolate dipped in chocolate) to be eaten while watching the adult softball league game nearby, Sundays with James Bond was a father-daughter ritual that I loved. Each afternoon I would curl up on the couch with my Dad and drape an old crochet blanket all the way over my head. Through its woven holes I could see the TV while simultaneously felt protected by its bulk. I loved the small jolts of fear the scary scenes inspired in the back of my throat. Yet I always felt overwhelmingly safe. The soundtrack in my mind to those lazy afternoons contains a methodical crunch and the rustling of a plastic chip bag: Agent 007 was always accompanied with tortilla chips and chunky red salsa. Ever since then the smell of salsa has immediately conjured up an image of a young Sean Connery, a Roger Moore, and a happy young girl with her dad.

Today, salsa does not bring any scent oriented memories to mind. In my largely odorless world, the muted taste and more important texture is what ties me to what I eat. The soft creaminess and delicate sweetness of my mom’s freshly made fall applesauce transports me to afternoons in the kitchen of my childhood. The warm crust of bread right out of the oven sends me to the bleary eyed 5am shift at the bakery I worked in before going to college. The crunch of almond biscotti feels like an afternoon in Florence; the bitter thickness of espresso is Rome. I can bring memories to mind with texture and a bit of attention almost as strongly as I had previously taken for granted that came with smell. With concentration and an inkling of imagination, I find that I can more closely understand the complexity of flavor available to me without a full sense of smell. I chew slowly and swallow, breathing out evenly, closing my eyes. On the exhale I can ‘taste’ in the back of my throat, even through my nose. I feel a subtle increase of flavor with each long exhale. When I move slowly, taste slowly, the sensations grow. On the exhale a sugary soft crunch becomes laced with tangy citrus zest, a sip of wine moves from simply sweet to layered with fruit and vine.

Not surprisingly, however, I overwhelming miss being able to taste fully. Without smell, my palette is extremely muted. Each bite is in a quiet fog; it is difficult to tell herbs, spices, subtleties apart. Sometimes I just want to feel something in my mouth without thinking about it. I want nothing more than to have a full taste sensation. This is where salsa comes back into my life, minus its smell related memories. These days I like it hot, spicy, and on everything. I put generous shakes of Tabasco sauce into my ‘extra hot’ salsa. I layer it onto tortilla chips with a spoon. Where the hint of cinnamon in coffee is a delicate grasp of an odor, the heat of jalapeno laden salsa is an unmistakably pleasant burn in my mouth, an undeniable warmth on my tongue. It is a taste that I do not need to think about; a physical sensation rather than ghostly possibility.

Beyond my unmistakable new love of salsa doctored with Tabasco, I am making progress in other arenas as well. I am walking with both legs, balancing only a bit on a (very stylish) black cane. I have a job as an assistant baker and pastry chef waiting for me as soon as I am strong enough to professionally wrestle with a good deal of dough. And last night as I was chopping up a bunch of fresh rosemary to garnish a roast lamb and goat cheese panini, its smell fairly assaulted my senses. The woodsy, rich odor of the pungent herb lodged itself wonderfully in my nasal cavity. I immediately saw myself, strangely enough, on a horse in Colorado where my family and I had spent a vacation over a decade ago. The scent brought to mind a western ranch, a walk through the wilderness, a dark brown horse more interested in eating trailside grass than agreeing to take me out for a ride. I was so happy I wanted to shove that rosemary right up my nose. I continued to smell my hands the entire night. Its lingering scent gave me goose bumps of pleasure; it reminded me, in an odd way, of James Bond.

The Art of Baking on Crutches

Right after the accident, food and cooking were the last things on my mind. It took extreme effort to make myself eat even a few sips of milkshake. As the weeks went by and my inability to smell became glaringly apparent, thoughts of food and cooking inspired only a deep sense of sadness. I could eat, but hardly taste. For over a month I wouldn’t go into the kitchen. I refused to take even one step into the room.

But as Rilke says, No feeling is final. And I have recently taken refuge in the kitchen.

I woke up one morning around two weeks ago to the seemingly ceaseless rain pounding on the windows; the blustery wind howling over our roof. It was a dark morning and the airy wetness fairly clung to body. I did my graceful one-legged hop down the stairs, balancing somewhat precariously on my crutches, and sunk comfortably into a large armchair. I sat with Wallace Stegner’s Angle of Repose propped open in front of me, wrapped in a blanket and ready to stave away boredom by getting lost in a book. But I couldn’t jump into Stegner’s story that morning. The air felt cold and the rain made me feel restless. Without even really thinking, I got up and went mindlessly into the kitchen. When I got there I looked around, not knowing quite what I was up to, and my gaze settled on the oven.

I’m going to bake; the idea suddenly shot into my head, taking my by surprise. There just didn’t seem to be any other option for that rainy Tuesday morning. And so wobbling awkwardly on crutches, I threw together some sugar and butter into a hazy silver metal bowl. The mixer hummed in its mechanical whir. The oven clinked as it painstakingly warmed itself and the room. I added eggs, vanilla extract, baking powder, espresso and flour. Cocoa, cinnamon and a daring dash of cayenne.

It took a while to figure out how to hold and carry baking sheets, how to portage dirty mixing bowls across to the sink and reach the spices way up on the top shelf. But soon it became a rhythm – the exact number of crutched steps I could take holding a bowl without losing balance, the length of time I could stand comfortably on my swaying right leg while my left hung delicately bent above the ground. The sound of my voice humming a cheerful melody was surprising.

And in the end, I pulled a tray of steaming and soft chocolate-chile butter cookies out of the oven. They were not the most beautiful I have ever seen – lumpy and uneven in my stiffly uncoordinated attempt at arranging them on the tray. I put my face close to the cookies; I could smell their warmth, if not their scent. Temperature holds a new value in my nose – heat is the smell of two bodies huddling in warmth on a freezing winter’s night under a mound of blankets; cold is the smell of the slowly vibrating chairlift as it brings me to the top of a frosty ski mountain in Vermont. I can smell the scentless temperature; it brings vivid recollections to mind.

Since that first foray back into the world of cooking, I have not been able to stop. I have gained enough strength to use my right leg as a balancing tool for long periods of time. I can leave my crutches leaning quietly alone on the far wall of the kitchen while I navigate the small room with well placed hops. To any fly on the wall, I look like a strange one-legged culinary rabbit, jumping abnormally to and fro with bowls and pans in our small little kitchen. But being able to cook and having the desire to step back into the kitchen makes me feel very much alive.

Some of what I’ve made has been, as my mother says, erratic. But I suppose that is all I can expect in my smell-less attempts at savory experimentation. Baking, however, with its necessary measurements and scientific precision, does not need a nose for excellence. Where my Moroccan chicken tagine, sheep’s milk and caramelized onion pasta, and even basic salad dressing may have been lacking the taste subtleties that come with scent, my almond cake, pumpkin pie, gingerbread, gateau au citron, chocolate pecan and oatmeal raisin cookies have been a reassuring jump back into the delicious. My only problem now is the sheer amount of baked goods that seems to spew themselves out of my oven. It’s a good thing I have wonderful friends willing to take them off my hands.

A Return to Cooking with my Ugly Chocolate-Chile Butter Cookies
adapted from Cooks Illustrated

While many were skeptical of the cayenne in these rich cookies (I do seem to add it to many things these days because I can taste it completely), the subtle bite of the chile gives a complex taste beyond the ordinary that even people who can smell really enjoy.

2 1/2 sticks of softened unsalted butter
1/2 cup cocoa powder
1 teaspoon instant espresso
1 cup sugar
pinch salt
2 egg yolks
1 tablespoon vanilla
1/2 cup toasted almonds, ground finely in the food processor
1 teaspoon cinnamon
1/8 teaspoon cayenne
2 1/4 cups flour

Preheat the oven to 375. Mix together butter, sugar, salt, cocoa and espresso on high speed until fluffy. Add egg yolks and vanilla. Lower the mixer speed and add the ground almonds, cinnamon and cayenne. Once incorporated, begin adding the flour slowly. When the dough comes together, take it out of the mixer and roll it into a round log around 2 inches thick and a foot long. Wrap it in plastic wrap and chill in the refrigerator for an hour. When you're ready to bake, slice rounds off of the log, about a quarter inch thick, and place them on parchment lined baking sheets. Bake 12 minutes.

And thank you to Shauna for the Rilke quote, I think about it often.

"Let everything happen to you,
beauty and terror.
Just keep going.
No feeling is final."

Bittersweet

The wine glasses clinked in unison, the cheers reverberating around the flickering candlelight in our small dining room. My mother, her boyfriend and I had bought this bottle of wine together when were in Italy at the end of the summer. A splurge on Brunello di Montalcino for a special occasion, we had said. We were all leaning in at the table, our faces closer together over the bulky weight of the table. Becca, having arrived that morning in a cloud of rain, sat across from me. The smiles were infectious. The laughter billowing up from the pit of my stomach felt strange, unfamiliar, wonderfully comforting all at the same time.

I placed my nose carefully near the inside of the fluted crystal glass. The red wine moved in a jaunty pirouette around the diminishing inner curve. I held the glass away from me, admiring the deep color in the light and then put it back towards my nose.

I inhaled deeply. Once, twice, three times. It was there; a scent was lurking in the back of my nose. A dark aroma of the outdoors, a cloudy fruitiness, a jarring tang. It cascaded down my throat. Brief, muted, but there all the same.

I looked up to find everyone staring at me. My family and Becca were watching me closely, simultaneously, wondering if I could smell, if I could taste, if I would hold it against them that they could. My surprised smile seemed to elevate their sympathetic anxiety.

I took a sip. I could taste the fruit; the thick sweetness of the red wine coated the roof of my mouth with its intensity. I could taste the acidity, a twang in the back of my throat as I exhaled again. The flavors were intense, wonderful, and jarringly separate. There was no melding between the sugar and acid. It had a strange echo of the familiar taste, but an overwhelming jump to the oddly split unknown.

When Becca left on Sunday night for her long trek back to upstate New York after a wonderfully refreshing weekend visit, I sat on my bed and inhaled deeply. There was no smell, per usual. Nothing but that all too familiar twang of loneliness residing in the back of my throat.

I have been existing in a strangely dissected world. I am recovered and strong enough to regain important snippets of my life. I took myself off of painkillers in order to remove the fog that I’ve felt continuously enveloping my mind. I can think clearly; I can laugh with my friends; I can move around hobbled only by my need for crutches. I grasp at my old social life, my old movement and taste. I am just beginning to smell a light waft of that deep sweetness, normalcy. It is constantly countered by that intense acidity of frustrating confusion, however. I am not beyond the immediate effects of my injuries, no matter the delicious progress I have made.

And so sipping my drink that night – my first taste of wine in months, finally off of my pain meds – it felt familiar in its strange dissociation of taste. My taste, my life, are torn between a happy sweetness of recovery and a dull tang of seeming impenetrable injury.

But I certainly think our bottle of Brunello was put to good use. The sweetness and acidity of the wine, however separate for me at the moment, are integral parts of its makeup. Eventually they will meld. Eventually everything will come together.

Kind Of Blue

The hard click seemed to echo through my body, vibrating slightly in the pit of my stomach. It came suddenly, after my softly said goodbye, the responding good luck Molly and the cold weight of the phone to my ear suddenly surprised me with its heaviness. I sat broodingly on the couch, my braced left knee perched on a vibrantly pink pillow in front of me. I stared out the nearby window, watching the wind jostle the course of the darkening rain storm, the beginning of the holiday weekend’s bad weather. The familiar rhythm of Miles Davis’ Kind of Blue enveloped the pattering rain with its lilting jazz, an unavoidable melding of sound that matched my loudly confused state of mind.

I was tossed from my mood of quiet thinking by the piercing whistle of the phone again. My Mom.

Well Mom, it’s official. I sighed overdramatically, feeling quite bad for myself.

What? she asked, the phone crackling in the background.

I am officially not going to culinary school in December. I almost shouted; saying it out loud made it final, a change that I knew was coming but never expected to be real. I’m just somehow surprised that this is all happening.

It’ll be ok, Molly. Of course she’s right; mothers are always right.

And later, as I continued my avid watch of the windy wet weather, a bulky copy of E.M. Forster’s Howards End balanced precariously on my knee, my thoughts leapt unavoidably around the CIA. It had taken me a few weeks to call them, so hesitant to admit the truth, that I would not be ready to go to culinary school by my official starting date in early December. I'm slowly mending from my physical injuries. My disturbing loss of smell (resulting in my frustratingly muffled sense of taste) is also reasserting itself in painstakingly lethargic dawdle. I can’t in all reality go to the CIA until I am myself again. I found myself surprised, stunned, that the call was so easy to make. I expected turmoil and trouble; I expected this call to reflect the past six weeks of difficultly and frustration. But I changed my entrance date in less than five minutes, listening half heartedly to the cheerful reassurances of the breathy voiced admissions officer.

Alright Molly, you are officially now going to begin your culinary associate’s degree in May, 2006. Thank you for calling.

As I cradled the phone on my shoulder, writing down my new information in thick black ink in my journal, I imagined the scene on the other end of the line. The efficient admissions secretary was perched on a thickly cushioned desk chair, a black phone headset angled over and around wildly frizzy blond hair, her mouth splayed into a wide friendly smile, the computer humming and the blinking red lights of her active phone subtly shining a reflection onto the window of her office. And nearby, close to that mystery woman who entered the data of a life change I was not ready to make, were knife-set bearing, white chef garbed culinary students going about their daily life.

Damn I’m sad, I thought, attempting to rearrange thoughts of my future, this year, in my head.

But as I sat, momentarily depressed on the long cushioned couch, I eventually had to let out the creeping urge to smile a bit. I am getting through this; I will be better; culinary school will come. A change of schedule, no matter how difficult or surprising, in this world is nothing to be permanently worked up about. And the sound of rain really is beautiful.

It is hard to admit, but there is a part of me that is relieved. I do very much want to begin my culinary education. But at the same time, this accident has scrambled up my thoughts on everything that I was so sure I ‘knew’ before. Right now, I am not ready to follow any kind of plan. I’m not ready to jump off of any sort of cliff of decision. I will take it slowly; I will write my way through it all. Despite the plans and urgings of many friends and family, I just have no idea what I’m going to do.

I stayed in my father’s house in New Hampshire after my surgery for a few weeks of recovery. He has never been a pronounced foodie, by any means. (He did, however, give me my genetic and profound love of mustard. I give him credit for that.) But he announced to me one day, a smile playing on his lips almost masked by his mustache and beard, a new ‘award winning’ idea.

Molly, you will be…The Tasteless Gourmet! Can you just see it now? You will bee looking at food in such a different way, totally original! No taste, no smell, but everything else! You will make it big! I rolled my eyes, not wanting to think about my lack of smell relating to any kind of life plan.

But Dad, my taste and smell are coming back. I don’t know how well that would work, really…

But he just smiled, excited by the prospect. And I laughed, thinking how strange it would be if that plan was a success, somewhere in a strangely mottled dream world.

And the other day – in one of my frequent long distance discussions with Becca (none of them ever having to do with celebrity gossip at all, of course) – we talked about my options.

Just start cooking, Molly. You can make up recipes according to your strange new taste buds. And then I’ll come visit and be your tasting judge.

I heartily accepted her offer, amused by the possibilities of my newfound food habits (lacking a strong sense of smell gives me a very new and surprising, albeit very muted, palette). Alright, I’ve got it - you know how I love salsa, Becca, now that one of the only things I can completely taste is spicy things. And of course I still love ice cream, no matter how much I can taste beyond the sugar. I think we’ll have to start this recipe creation session with some salsa ice cream. Giggling to myself at the prospect, knowing the horror on her face.

Oh, ok, fine. Fun. No problem. And I promise I’ll even smile after I taste it, no matter what I think or how much I want to throw up.

I have wonderful friends and family. That is what it all really comes down to.

unexpected changes

I am sitting on the plush beige armchair in the living room of my mom’s house right now. It just finished raining outside, the light is dim and there is a thick brush of humidity hanging heavily around my already frizzy hair. A cool breeze slowly wraps itself around my shoulders, sneaking in through the screen door behind me. My computer is balanced lightly on my thighs. And I don’t really know what to write.

The past three weeks have been jarring – to my body, my mind, my family and friends, my future. I don’t remember the accident (luckily, I think) at all. I don’t remember the days in the hospital or even the first days of being home. I vaguely remember seeing some old friends come to visit, bursting into tears. I have hazy images of flowers and balloons, bottles of vibrantly colored pills and extremely awkwardly used metal crutches. A combination of switching my pain medication and the beginning slow process of healing a skull fracture restored my mind, my memory and lucidity. I couldn’t read or write until about a week ago, dizzy and confused. But I am now just beginning to process what has happened. I am just now beginning to fully understand and appreciate how wonderful my friends and family have been to me. It has hit me like a bolt of lightning how unbelievably lucky I am. I will be 100% better in time. I go into surgery tomorrow for my left knee. After that it is simply a long road to recovery. I am scared. But I am also happy that I am here, that I am alright and that things will certainly be ok.

The hardest thing for me at the moment, however, has nothing to do with my bones. I am more than willing to put in the effort to recover from a broken knee, pelvis, skull. They will be fine. I am terrified because of one of the effects of the skull fracture -

I have lost my sense of smell.

There was a bruising on my brain in the front, right behind my forehead, where the neurons for the sense of smell reside. The doctors are hopeful; I am keeping every possible aspect of my body crossed. No one knows if it will return. There is a possibility that it will, brains simply take a bit of time to heal and rewire. My smell could pop right back in within a month, two months, even a year. There is also the possibility that the ligaments connecting my smell neurons to my nose were broken completely; I will never smell again. And without smell, taste is a mere invisible possibility. Salt, sweet, bitter and sour are fine. But there is nothing else. Texture and temperature is all I have right now. France is already a non-possibility. Culinary school is now on precarious balance. If I can’t taste, how will my life involve food?

So I am at home now, looking outside at the slowly growing sunshine, wondering (perhaps too worriedly) where I am going. I am confused about the speed in which things change. I am confused about what I am going to do with myself. For now, though, I am going to concentrate on healing and coming back to be the Molly that I have missed. I am well on my way and I am positive this will be an experience that will give a meaningful shape to my life. Until then, I will spend my time with my friends, my family, sniffing everything possible (practice will makes perfect), and writing. I will certainly continue to update My Madeleine. A passion for cooking and food is certainly not taken away by a smell-stealing accident. With full hope that all my senses will soon be back to normal, this will be a striking experience. It will be a short-term entrance into a strange world hardly desired by someone so in love with eating. But it is one that will heighten my other senses - the visual, temperature, texture, atmosphere. I am beginning to look at what I love in a new way. There are many unexpected changes.

an update

(this is molly's friend becca.) on august 30th, molly was hit by a car while jogging. she injured her knee and fractured both her pelvis and skull. thankfully, she's going to be completely fine. she's doing much better these days, but is still a bit too dizzy to read or type quite yet. she'll be updating as soon as she can.

what followed me to italy

Cold, brown water gushed from a black opening in the bottom of the wall-mounted air conditioner near my bed. It roared out of the rumbling metal contraption, splashing on the gleaming mahogany chest of drawers below and forming muddled pools on the bronze tiled floor. The majority of that putrid water was collecting in large plastic buckets, thick and hefty. Each filthy bucket was deposited on my bed. One by one, a never ending stream. I couldn’t see who was putting them there – an invisible hand was slowly, carefully stacking them in concentric circles around where I lay. Through closed eyes I imagined a hazy cave of plastic, felt an encroaching suffocation, a dreamy procession of liquid kitchen-duties literally piling up on top of me. The large canopied bed, fitted with off-white blankets and ruffled pillows was inundated with the containers of mysteriously flowing water. I lay there under my covers, utterly unwilling and unable to move. I could feel their watery weight shifting the mattress, yet I still could not make myself get up. There was no way I could rouse myself to bring the buckets to the sink and empty them like I knew, somehow, I was supposed to. I was so tired; it was so late. They were piling up so quickly. I would soon be crushed.

I dug myself deeply under my blankets, hair wildly flung about my pillow, restlessly tossing about, half in this disturbing dream world. My impending suffocation-by-air-conditioner-water was eerily real, yet still not sharp enough to throw me into full wakefulness. I could practically hear The Chef yelling my name, reprimanding my tardy cleaning. Why are those buckets still full? What the hell are you doing? I mumbled incoherently, tossing and turning, unable to shake the sound of rushing water.

A bucket floating over my head, slowly descending – I woke with a start, alone in an empty bed, on my first night in Umbria. I was surprised to find a dry mattress, a smoothly running air conditioner.

The restaurant followed me to Italy. The Chef in my dreams did not seem to care that I was in an Umbrian villa with my family; he hounded me as there was work to be done. I couldn’t fall asleep again that first jet-lagged night. I couldn’t shake the feeling that I had left (my dream? the restaurant?) too suddenly, that S. would be stuck taking all the water from the bed in Umbria to the sink alone.

***

I was surprised on this trip to Italy to find that my rudimentary restaurant-Spanish eclipsed all the Italian I had studied in college. It took me two days to stop saying hola when I meant buongiorno; a week to substitute molto for mucho. I was also surprised to find myself thinking about S. far more than anyone else I left at the restaurant. And so before I can write about Italy, I need to write about him. S. touched me far more than I affected him, I’m sure. But he was a defining character in my life this summer.

S., the other prep-chef and dishwasher in the small restaurant where I worked this summer, is a short man, standing only a few inches higher than my 5’3. His dark skin is rough, weather-hewn, stretched across his small features in a way that makes him look much older than his 31 years. His eyes, though, are young, sad. He is thin but strong, his belly just beginning to acquire a slight paunch. At the end of each night of work his shirt and pants were always spotless, pristinely clean in comparison to my inevitably stained clothing. He is quiet; it took an entire summer of long hours in the prep room, our heads bent over a mountain of fresh garbanzo beans or dirty mushrooms, unfamiliar words tossed out into the void of mistranslation, before I felt like I knew him at all.

S. emigrated from El Salvador two years go, leaving behind a girlfriend, 4-year-old son, and five of his nine siblings. He speaks hardly a word of English, despite his great desire to learn this foreign tongue and get a better job.

As my Spanish improved, I began translating what was said in the kitchen for him: the jokes, the insults, the quickly spouted instructions. Never before having felt integrated into the restaurant life, he appreciated the newfound lingual entrance. He was inspired enough to sign up for an English class beginning this fall. He, in turn, always managed to procure and save for me the extra desserts that were unfit for service, knowing my undying passion for chocolate. It was a wonderful partnership.

One night during a lull of service, he showed me his boxing moves, blowing out air in mock speed sounds from his mouth, eyes narrowed, a glint in his eyes – ferocious and utterly disconnected form the meekly gentle man that I dishwashed with. He was in the El Salvadorian army for five years. He ran two hours a day with his fellow soldiers, he told me proudly. His back is covered with light purple, spidery thin scars.

S. gave me a high-five and a goofily loud Hola, chica each afternoon when we converged at the sink. He plays soccer ever Sunday morning in the park with his friends, paints houses on his days off, and sends all his extra money back to his family. He worked harder than anyone I have ever witnessed: never a shortcut, hardly ever a break, night after night without fail, his cheerfulness never faltering. Our lives were different in every possible way. I feel incredibly lucky to have known him. I feel guilty to be moving on. I went to work at the restaurant expecting only an experience of food. What has been foremost in my mind recently, however, is my undying respect for S., a man who drowned every morsel of food in Tabasco sauce.

When I said goodbye to him my last night, I gave him my phone number so that he could practice his English when he began taking the language class. He told me that he doesn’t have a phone.

on leaving the restaurant and going to italy

Last week I told The Chef that I was leaving the restaurant. His eyes hardened and narrowed into a cold, penetrating stare. He blew a puff of offended air, exploding out of his pursed lips.

When The Chef hired me last spring we agreed that I would be traveling the last two weeks in August in Italy with my mom. I have been plagued by a constant rumble of guilt, lodged deep in the pit of my stomach, while deciding the future of my employment. But in the end, I will not be returning to my dishwashing position after this Italian journey.

The Chef was not happy; I braced myself for his wrath.

I told him that I have the opportunity to go to France, to learn the language. (Which I do; a village in the Alps.) And then an earlier starting date at culinary school.

Culinary school. What a waste. Why pay for that crock when you could be working; learning with your hands.

I told him how much I respect him and his work. This job has been an eye opening experience; I have learned more than I could ever have dreamed of.

Stop blowing hot air up my ass, Molly.

I apologized for leaving earlier than The Chef has wanted; I feel irresponsible.

You are irresponsible. This is not Brown; you can’t wake up and roll out of bed and go to class. You are an utter disappointment.

The words hit my like a slap in the face. I am an utter disappointment.

Attempting to fight the tears welling up in my eyes (there’s no crying in kitchens, Molly) I began to ramble, desperately trying to redeem my horrifying crash of respect in the eyes of The Chef. I told him that I wanted to write; that I needed more academic tutoring, a look at food beyond a faraway observation and a mountain of dirty plates. In the last few months he himself has spent a total of ten minutes with me, teaching me only to devein shrimp. I need more; I have the opportunity for more. I can’t pass it up, no matter how much I respect him.

Go interview Ruth Reichl. She worked in a kitchen. Apple worked in a kitchen. You are too romantic, Molly. That is not reality; live in the real world.

In a sad display of dishwasher toughness, I tried to smile as the tears slid unwelcome down my cheeks.

I’m sorry, Chef. I need to move on.

The Chef just stared at my, poignantly, as if he were visually measuring my worth and finding it obviously, painfully lacking. Ok, fine. Thank you for your work.

I told S. later that night in my halting Spanish, bursting into tears again. It was not a good night for dishwashing stoicism. I valiantly finished out the week, hoping somewhere in the back of my mind to impress The Chef with my hard work enthusiasm, romantic notions and all.

***

I leave for Italy this afternoon. There is so much more I have to write about The Chef, J., A., and S. It will have to wait until I return, two weeks from now.

But in conclusion, I have gained many things in my summer as a dishwasher and prep chef:

A continuing and undeniable love of all things culinary,

A hugely consuming respect for anyone who works in a kitchen,

A fascination with preserved meats like confit,

An even greater fascination with France, the French and French food,

Seven pounds in muscle,

And a groundwork of stories and personalities that I will never tire of writing about.