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The Magic Rain Chairs

| Chef Marc

Starbucks on Astor Pl. Roof is leaking. The only two free seats that happen to be postioned under a major leak have had many takers. Alas no one has been able to tame the bewitched Rain chairs(or move them anywhere else). Beverage laden tourists walk up to the chairs, setup shop. Making a temporary beverage shelter for them and their clan.They make it their own by splaying out carefully all the newly garnered Starbucks provisions. Giving a visual sign to all, “this space is taken. Keep to the coffee trail, Keep moving.” all the others that paid their dues at the Rain Chairs now somberly stare at the ground in unifying silence while the unassuming coffee gazelle’s hunches are ripped out from under them.

Life’s brutal lessons continue like they have for countless coffee millennia (in coffee years about 4 hours). Next life altering challenge; Get on line and wait for the restroom. Open the door to the restroom without touching the door. Pay homage to the ceramic shrine, using as many of the rooms vast amenities( minus the nicly tagged baby station) as possible. Without putting down my shetland pony sized Kmart bag (can be done). Wish me luck.

Go Yeast Young Man (making pizza with homemade yeast)

| Chef Marc

I wanted to make my daughter a slammin pizza today by using gleefully ripe Plum tomatoes from our own garden. After close inspection of all food, spices and other worldly cooking stuffs worthy of pizzadom, I realized to my dismay I didn’t have yeast for “Operation Make-a-da- Pizza”. I thought; “Do you really want to go out to the megamart for yeast?” I decided to see if I’ve got the grapes for the job. and headed outside to pick a bowls worth of grapes growing on our property. I had hopes of making enough yeast with the grapes to make a killer pizza. First thing done with the grapes was to make sure they weren’t any nasty bits or fruit sporting any kind of hidden bug co-ops, lurking in with the other grapes . Grapes were then put into a stainless steel bowl with about three cups of 107 degree filtered water. A pinch of sugar was added as an insurance and snack for the beautiful little beasties to partake of . After that he whole lot was gracefully placed atop of my modified/pimped cup warmer that I enjoy using for keeping my tea nice and warm as I do super duper important stuff around the house. I put enough Insulation around the heating plate to allow just enough surface area to touch the bowl and keep it warm but not too warm. You want it to be warm enough to let the yeast love fest to Begin the Beguine, but not too much. If the water is too hot the yeast will stop growing and could very well take that big trip the leavening here-after. Depending on where you get you information it’s generally believed that over a 120 degrees will cause your yeast to play dead for real.

I think body temperature to about 110 degrees fahrenheit is a good place to be on the yeast love boat.
I’ll let you know how it goes.

Is eating a salad cruel?

| Chef Marc

If they could prove (if) that all plant life used for our for food felt pain or suffered when harvested/processed would it affect your dietary choices and how? The question isn’t meant to insight any hateful of emotionally  visceral response. I know how I feel about it. As a chef I would like to know what you think  and how you feel about about it. Remember this is not fact. It’s a question about if it would impact us profoundly or change in anyway eating choices and dietary lifestyles. Please share, Don’t scare.

Pinky Swear!!!

| Chef Marc

From time to time I’ve had hardened criminals working at my pot sink and at other duties. I remember asking a one of them a question. Getting the answer from them. Then me telling them with a voice of authority, “Pinky Swear”. They replyed; Wut!!. I said; Ya heard me. Pinky Swear Bi+ch! The spider web covered, teary eye inked gentleman gleared a look back at me with sun furrowed face and eyes. Apparently in squinty stare down chef mode. I look dead pan right back at him.

A long Elevator music pause ensued as we looked at each other, minus the music. He tilted his head to the left, like a confused dog listening to everyone on that side of the planet. Then just before I wrenched a butt cheek I had been clenching, he roared with laughter. Casting out with great force from his lungs what could been his first cigarette smoked at the age of two. The Potwasher shaked, flailed and wheezed in another full breath of air just to bellow it out in thunderous laughter again. His Laughter sounded like a monk chanting deep, powerful resonating tones. Affecting in a postivetive mannor all things it came in contact with. Then, I laughed and said” whadda laughing at?”, as I passed by him with a wink and a chuckle. The End