a pretty good party

Hooray! Winter is finally here, although this time last year I was already up to my ankles in snow. Despite being cold, it's still good weather for Chuck Taylors up here, which is a disappointment so far--I anxiously await being able to make snowmen on my rooftop.

Of course, despite my utter lack of belief in what it represents, Christmas has already begun for me. The other day I baked cookies with my good friend, and have quite a few stars, gingerbread men, and christmas trees on my coffee table, all laden with the appropriately shaped sprinkles. It is, of course, only the tip of the iceberg. Soon, my studio apartment will be decorated with glowing strings of red chili peppers, and I will be engaged on several occasions, I do hope, on drinking wassail until I pass out. There may also be Reed's Spiced Apple Brew in store, which is a wonderful investment any time of the year.

I don't have any idea what I'll be doing for the actual Christmas holiday. I've already pretty much realized I won't be able to make it back to Texas until shortly after New Years, when my body will be broken by the restaurant industry. At the very worst, this bachelor pad-turned-professional kitchen will have a goose roasting.

I bought a new stockpot. And a saucepan. Roughly 25 dollars each, which was quite a steal. The pot is a 16-quart, which means I can make several gallons of stock easily now, rather than stuffing bones and vegetables into the little Farberware I found in the trash at PCI, or my 6-quart sautoise. My kitchen now contains every item of cookware needed to create almost everything I know to be good in the world, except maybe one decent nonstick pan. The next step for me is a KitchenAid and a meat grinder, and a terrine mold. Yes, I know, I need to scrub the top of my stove.

I went down to Trader Joe's for the first time yesterday, and despite the brisk walk to East Liberty, it was well worth it. Due to Pennsylvania's liquor laws, they can't really do here what they're famous for--cheap, good wine in large quantities--but even without the booze, it's a wonderful experience to just go in there and look at everything. I bought a pound of New Mexicon Pinon beans (absolutely wonderful), some real Bourbon vanilla extract, some very nice real maple syrup (buying fake ensures a terrorist victory), and a small jar with a surprisingly substantial amount of Spanish saffron in it (four dollars!!), which, I'm sure, will yield a much nicer color and flavor than the tiny capsules I buy from the Pennsylvania Macaroni Company in the Strip.

Of course, getting paid right before my days off, I couldn't resist going to Whole Foods on the way back. The three natural food stores in my area, Trader Joe's, Whole Foods, and the Market District Giant Eagle are basically all on the same street in a line, with Trader Joe's being the most far out and the Giant Eagle being the closest to my apartment. The meaning of this to me is greater than The Mall of America, Fifth Avenue, or Chinatown in New York--things like black truffle oil, Elysian Fields lamb, and Prince Edward Island mussels are like Prada handbags to me, and to have such convenient access to them is dangerous to my budget. I managed to get away from Whole Foods this time, however, with nothing more than some blackstrap molasses, very good orange blossom honey, and a replacement pastry brush (long ago, the one I received from PCI burst into flame in a barbecue mishap). Somehow, I was able to walk by the cheese department, bigger than my apartment and featuring excellent English Stilton.

Tomorrow is Jacques Pepin's lecture at the Carnegie Music Hall. I didn't get my tickets in the mail, so I'm going to have to run by the university somewhere to pick them up. The oppurtunity to have one of the great culinary masterminds teach me what he knows is too awesome to pass up.

I'm going to have a very rough week ahead, I know--Tuesday through Saturday. But having a weekend off may as well have been a vacation. For once, I woke up feeling refreshed this morning, not aching in every part of my body or smelling like a hideous mixture of bleach and garlic processed through a Robot-Coupe. I got to continue working on Anthony Bourdain's new book. I roasted bones and mirepoix, and stirred a pincage, shirtless, in the comfort of my own messy two-room home, and woke up at nine in the morning to strain a perfect brown stock, or, as the Escoffier says, an estouffade. I made mushroom risotto with fresh chervil and white truffle oil. A bèchamel with caramelized onions and garlic, with fresh basil and parmesan cheese, accompanied pasta. At Soba on Friday, I went to a Scotch and Cognac tasting which was (despite my sitting next to the dishwasher, who mixed all his scotch together and shot it back) sublime.

It's quite necessary to kick back and enjoy, in a lower key, what you dedicate your life to professionally, no matter what it is. Maybe when I tie my long, white apron over my chef's jacket today, I'll remember what I try to believe in all the time: life should be allowed to happen, for better or for worse, and isn't something to worry about--and risotto Milanese is really, really fucking good.