I received a text message late last night from my Sicilian friend. It read:
Buonanotte caro Joe. Today you looked pensive, stressed and sad altogether. Hope you feel better tonight. Let’s have a coffee together tomorrow before demo, hopefully enjoying some sunshine.
He was right. I spent most of yesterday in the most inconsolably shitty mood. I was tired, stressed and generally pissed off. The weekend having done absolutely fuck all to relieve my tiredness, actually compounded it instead, beyond my worst nightmares. The early start yesterday was the beginning of the end.
I managed to lighten up a little in the evening after writing the blog. I sat down in the cottage with a bottle of wine and decided to tackle today’s order of work. It looked like a busy one, so I wanted to get organised. Inexplicably, I had this crazy notion that I could restore my normal composure and relaxed demeanour, climb out of this trough of depression and despair, by cooking my way through an absolute shitstorm.
At the top of the order of work you write your name, date and what you are cooking. My name doesn’t cause me too much trouble but when I write the date I kind of shudder. Tuesday 1st December. Holy shit. It can’t be true. I remember this day a year ago; holed up with the flu, in dark, wet, depressingly recession clad London praying for the day in two weeks time when I would get on a plane for Australia. Now I don’t even know what country I’ll be in in two weeks’ time.
This isn’t helping much, so I move onto my dishes. Cappelletti with Tomato and Cream Sauce. Sounds straightforward. Isn’t. It’s a freaking nightmare. First you have to make the pasta, which takes ages since you have to knead it by hand and then roll it out. Then you have to make the filling, which involves mincing then cooking pork and chicken, separately, then letting them cool before you combine them with a range of other ingredients. Then you have to make the bloody things - 6cm squares of pasta with a blob of filling in the middle, folded into triangles, wrapped around your finger, then folded back on themselves so they resemble little Modenese hats. The recipe will yield 150, it says. No it won’t, I tell myself. Then there is the sauce, which needs prepping, slow cooking, pureeing though a mouli and combining with cream.
Piece of cake. And when that’s all done, I also have to make panna cotta, which takes a bit of attention since if you let the cream boil you have buggered it. And you have to prep moulds and sponge and dissolve gelatine as well. I have also got a biga going so am going to make more bloody ciabatta. And to top it all, I have this absurd idea that I will be able to make a couple of focaccias as well to tick the box next to my white bread duty. I diligently prepare my time plan. Even if I get my breads done before 9am when we officially start cooking, I still can’t be finished before 12.30. This is the first time I have written an order of work that finishes after noon. Normally you plan to finish at about ten to, then roll on way past, so this is complete madness.
I’m up early and in the kitchen at 8.30am. I get yeast sponging for both breads and all my ingredients sieved and ready. By 9am the ciabatta is resting, the focaccia is being kneaded in the Kenwood and I am already working on my pasta dough. I go through my order of work with my teacher. She explains how you are supposed to take it easy in the last week, set yourself a few simple dishes and do them well and on time. I know, I tell her, but I just can’t help myself. Not only am I going to do it, I’m going to do it without losing it. I invite her back at 1pm, when I am thrashing around the kitchen like some fallen giant fighting for it’s final breath, to gloat.
When I left the house this morning, I paused for a moment. Calm, composed, clean. And confident. That was what I need to be. I stopped short of tapping this into myself, as some people round here have been doing, with considerable success. I listen to some soft tunes in the car to get me in a soothing mood. And I don’t even think about a cup of coffee until almost 11am. By the time I do, I know it is all over.
My pasta is made and rolled. My filling is ready, perfectly seasoned and completely delicious. The sauce is on the go, I have to get my breads in the oven and make the panna cotta, but I am ahead of the mark and I am staying there. I serve up the pasta, with a beautiful focaccia at 12.10, while everyone else is still hard at it. The panna cotta is chilling, ready for tomorrow and the ciabattas are in the oven.
It has been hard. Relentless. The hardest day’s cooking of my life. I am back feeling myself once more. The shitstorm therapy worked. When you get to the top, you'll feel a lot better about yourself. The ciabatta is still not right, though and I am running out of time. I’ll have to squeeze in one more go before I’m outta here. You’d have thought the reward for the morning’s achievements would be a nice easy demo, but no. Instead it is among the most laborious and dull we have had so far. The upshot of it all? On Thursday I have to poach a skate wing and steam 2lb of potatoes. That should keep me busy for about ten minutes. Maybe I should just do what the lady said; take it easy, simple dishes, done well and on time....
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