Back in the Groove

Yesterday afternoon as I chopped veggies to prep for pizza night, I started to feel the burn. That little spot on the inside of my index finger, where I once built up a knife callus, is back. And so the blistering begins (again). It hurts with every chop of the knife, but it feels good to be back in the kitchen, turning produce from the field into tonight's dinner.


I had been missing that farm-to-table feeling. There is nothing like racing out to the garden in the middle of dinner to cut some basil because we didn't prep enough that afternoon, and then watching someone devour the food that made your heart rate jump just a few minutes earlier.

 Heather cooks the pizzas in the wood fire oven and Seale cuts and boxes.

 Friday night's kitchen crew: Diane and I. Note the matching bandanas (planned).

This is the night where I graduated from rolling out dough to dressing pizzas.

Midway through the dinner rush last night, as I was delivering a pizza from the kitchen out to the wood-fire oven, something caught my eye. I knew it wasn't right, but it took me a few seconds to register. Then it clicked. "The sheep are out!" Over near the car park area was a lineup of sheep munching on the grass. Already a good distance away from their fenced pasture, they were headed further away. I put down the pizza, called Buddy the farm dog and made a run for the rogue sheep. Together we herded them back to their pasture in a matter of minutes and then it was right back to the kitchen, on to another pizza.

This kind of rush (the moment where you have this inner-battle between your priorities: Farmer first, cook second? Cook first, worry about the animals later?) felt familiar, and reminded me of a predicament I found myself in when I was at Eigensinn. 

I was working in the kitchen that night and in the lull between the fourth and fifth course I went back to the walk-in fridge to get something and out the back door I could see the head of one of the big mamma 300 lb pigs sticking out from the barn. Pig in barn = not in pen = could get into the garden = no food next month. In my chef's coat and apron, I grab my rubber boots and jog out to the barn figuring it's just a matter of opening the gate and shooing miss piggy back in. Wrong. Pigs are smart and this one knew that the barn is where the food is, so I needed to entice her back in to the pen with more than just the waving of my arms. I grabbed a bucket of food and dangled it over the fence. She didn't budge. I figured she was calling my bluff, so I opened the gate wide enough for her to get in, then went to the other end and dumped the food inside the pen. Just as she started to show an interest and move her hefty self towards the gate, the other pigs waddled over for a late night snack. I was okay with sharing except that the crowd of them ended up blocking the opening in the gate. Now that miss piggy was in favour of coming in, she couldn't thanks to the five other pigs who were blocking her while they ate her bait. And so what could a novice do but climb halfway up the gate, bend over and try to physically maneuver the pigs out of the way. Wrong again.


Eventually, I can't even remember how, the pig went back in the pen. It seemed like it took forever. And yet when I slipped back into the kitchen, my absence had gone completely unnoticed. I picked up my knife and we carried on with preparing the fifth course. To this day I still wonder whether anyone looked out the window during those seven long minutes to see the girl from the city trying to cope in her new surroundings: upper half dressed as a cook, lower half dressed as a farmer, propped halfway up a gate, muck all around, losing her mind over an escaped pig.  


Escaped pig, check.
A-la-minute basil from the garden, check.
Rogue sheep, check.
It's good to be back.

There's no hiding where your hands have been when you're working with flour...