First Week at Culinary School
White linen, tomatoes concasse, veloute strained through a chinois, the world
cut in 1/4 by 1/4 by 2—a battonet—basil chiffonnade, a potato
carved into seven impossible windows—what grocery list I made
to get here, what recipe on a notecard stained with veal stock
and Jesuit cursive—ratios, French definitions of peel and slice and
the wrought iron cities and sugar balustrades, Careme’s lost childhood
and the guillotine windows of revolutions, Edith Piaf
through the air vents and water pipes filled with vinegar
solution—the white Windsor knot I tied around my neck at 3am,
the pocket watch ticking down the minutes for the béchamel, the heat
from the ovens, the pictures of my children in my back pocket
with the stock recipes and restaurant addresses and telephone
numbers for the people I’m afraid to call, the necklace with all my wedding rings,
my hands burned and bare, waiting for my children’s names tattooed
to remind me—rosemary for remembrance; lavender for sleep—Saharan cities built from salt, not white palaces but grey prison camps for the slaves who burned and burned inside their desiccated fortresses, the wind blowing the ingredients of their bodies
away—alloys, museum wax, mummies built of resin and tannin, tungsten and ergot,
calcium and salt. What white heaven assembled out of flour and milk, a world
written down, sifted through all the years I’ve tried to measure, calibrate
size and temperature and just how I got here, standing at the edge of a cooling universe,
ice water bath at my feet, my world ready, waiting
for the serviette, the menu, the white linen folding up like knees, bend down
to the world someone gave you, sit down, cup your hands, eat.
If you enjoyed this post, make sure you subscribe to my RSS feed!
{ 4 comments… read them below or add one }
Your words are intoxicating. I understand nothing, but yet I am intrigued. I am from a Saharan city, but I know nothing of these fortresses of museum wax. What I do know is that your language is both confusing and delicious. If this meditation were a recipe, I would follow it, and most likely blow up my kitchen. My taste buds are seared, as are my ears. (Forgive me, English is my second language. I am Algerian.) Much I relate to – the flavor in the words themselves… and yes, I also eat from cupped hands. But I must ask you. Who is the bodacious woman in the photograph, eating what appears to be pudding? Is that you, perchance?
Which Saharan city?
Sadly, the photo is not of me, but of my first culinary instructor. A perfectly lovely woman.
I was born in “El Kantara” in Biskra, Algeria. But I live in America now. I stumbled upon your blog through a random google search of “tungsten” “alloy” and “Sahara” – because of a technical paper I must write on production of light bulb filaments and X-ray tubes in North Africa. I was amused, but happy, to find your lively piece.
tungsten, alloy and Sahara. that’s beautiful. light bulb filaments and North African X-ray tubes are pretty gorgeous too. i once wrote a poem about Saharan wind farms; i’ll see if i can find it.