Welcome fo Lil Chef's Blog

As the late (and great) Cajun chef Justin Wilson would say, “How Y’all are!?” I am the Little Chef and if you are reading this, consider yourself a charter member of my food blog! First, let me tell you about myself, then we’ll get down to business - FOOD!

I was born in New York (Long Island - Manhassett to be precise), raised in my parent’s native Phoenix (and you think fire is hot?), went to high school in Santa Barbara, California (yes, it‘s true what they say about California girls), and currently reside in Utah (insert green Jell-O joke here). I’ve also been to Mexico several times (I grew up in Arizona…what’d you expect, Canada?), Canada once (gotcha!), and spent two years in Japan (insert Mormon missionary joke here).

So, yeah, I’ve been around. Okay, maybe not as “around” as I would like. I do tend to find myself living vicariously through travel shows on PBS. But still, unlike many people (*coughs* Utah!), at least I haven’t been stuck in the same place my entire life. Don’t get me wrong. I enjoy living in Utah, and one can find great food in Utah. The problem is, it’s all transplanted, generalized, popped from the corporate cookie-cutter mold chock full of preservatives, or super-sized for the family.
For example, when you go to the Deep South what do you expect? BBQ, Gumbo, Fried Chicken, Cornbread, and so on and so forth. New England is famous for it’s chowders and incredible seafood. Chicago is the sausage capital of the U.S., and if you were to go to the Southwest, you’d get the best Mexican food outside of Old Mexico.

What about Utah? Jell-O. You read right. The official state food of Utah is Jell-O. Don’t get me wrong. I love Jell-O. Growing up in Arizona, every Saturday was “Hamburger Day” for our family. We’d all go to our grandparents’ house (Aunts, Uncles, cousins and all) for my grandfather’s legendary hamburgers. And yes, there was Jell-O. Couldn’t be a BBQ without a nice big side of fruit filled Jell-O (Don’t forget the whipped cream!). When I was in college at Arizona State, I would mix black cherry Jell-O with Dr. Pepper. I would use hot water to dissolve the Jell-O and then, instead of cold water to get it to set, I’d use Dr. Pepper. Mm mm good times!

There’s also a dish here called Funeral Potatoes which is nothing more than a “hausfrau” version of rösti potatoes, a German dish of shredded scalloped potatoes, ham and cheese that’s baked. It’s actually quite good and hearty and can be easily made in bulk. In the beginning days of the Mormon church, founder Joseph Smith’s wife Emma created a woman’s group called the Relief Society . Ever since, Mormon women have made these tasty potatoes for grieving families, hence the name Funeral Potatoes.

So sure, Jell-O is yummy and Jell-O is fun, and Funeral Potatoes are great for, well, funerals (and big families too!). But seriously, there is more to life than Jell-O. There’s a whole world of food out there to explore! There’s no shame in trying something new to eat. It never ceases to amaze me how some people refuse to indulge themselves in a little spice of life. They stick themselves in a corner of the world and never give themselves the chance to experience the many different cultures and cuisines the world has to offer. If there’s one thing I can’t stand is a fussy eater.

When I go out to eat, it’s more than just to stuff my face and feed the growling tummy before it feeds on me. I love to try new places that I’ve never dined at before just so I can get a taste of what other chefs have to offer. I mean, really. It’s called culinary arts for a reason. It’s art! Just because Monet didn’t paint like Da Vinci doesn’t mean it’s not good. Not every artist paints the Mona Lisa. I can almost imagine a fussy eater at an art gallery:

“They don’t have the Mona Lisa. I really wanted to see the Mona Lisa.”
“But honey, this is a French Impressionist exhibit.”
“I hate French Impressionism. They had a Mona Lisa at the Louvre. Why not here?”
“This isn’t the Louvre.”
“I know. The Louvre was better.”
“Good for them. Now, look, they have a Monet. Just look at a Monet and be happy about it.”
“Maybe if I just ask them to paint me a Mona Lisa”
“They can’t just pull a Mona Lisa out of nowhere.”
“Why not? My mom did it all the time.”
“Your mom’s house is not an art gallery, sweetie, and the artists here are not your mom. Every time we come to the gallery all you do is look at the Mona Lisa. I wanted to come to this gallery because they didn‘t have a Mona Lisa. Look at something else for a change!”

Ok, I’m getting beyond myself a bit, but I think you get the idea. From here on out we are going to lose our gastronomic inhibitions and go exploring! Don’t worry, I’m not going to go into extremely exotic things like bird’s nest soup (yes it is made with a real bird’s nest, or actually the spit from a Thai swallow used to glue the nest together), fried Amazon tarantulas or, heaven forbid, haggis. Let’s just say I find it my duty and obligation as a chef to eradicate fussy palates.

We’ll explore foods I grew up with in Arizona and California, foods from Brazil where my dad did missionary work in the late 1950’s as well as Japan where I did missionary work. We’ll also explore recipes from great chefs that I think all children should know about but most likely won’t (and that’s a shame) such as Graham Kerr, Justin Wilson and the immortal Julia Child. And, for those less experienced, I’ll even throw in some examples of poor restaurant etiquette (I mean besides burping ’hello’ to the table next to you).

So, where do I get this passion for culinary variety? There are many things I can blame my mother for. One thing we’re both well known for is mixing our syllables when we speak. For example, when I was in kindergarten I wore cowboy boots. One day my mom told me to pick up my feet and quit scuffing my boots. It came out, “quit scoofing your butts!” When I got older I noticed I had the tendency to do the same thing. My mom has since apologized. She claims she never intended to pass on that gene, but sometimes I wonder!

It actually started when my mom and dad got married. As the story goes, my dad told my mom that he wanted her to explore different cuisines. He didn’t want to eat the same thing day after day, week after week. She was quite successful with the exception of the “Borsch Incident” which she has since fixed. My dad and his friend Nelson Reed would go down to Mexico to go scuba diving (I still remember the last trip we took! I was about 3-4 years old I think), and they would bring back some crabs and my mom, not a seafood lover at the time, was expected to cook them. My dad taught her how to fill an ice chest with warm water and cornmeal. The warm water was to put the crabs to sleep and the corn meal was for the crabs to eat to clean out their digestive system. She loves seafood now. When we lived in New York, my dad introduced her to pickled herring. She eats it every Christmas while reminiscing of those wonderful Christmas shopping trips to FAO Schwartz in Manhattan.

When I was in high school, I would sit on the couch with my mom and watch Julia, Graham and Justin on PBS while folding laundry (It was in prehistoric caveman days, B.C. - Before Cable). I think it was the only way my mom could get me to help fold the laundry. It was about my junior year in high school, I think, when I first started my recipe collecting. My mom eventually gave me a binder in which I specifically keep clipped recipes and menus from different restaurants. From there I found myself in college, sharing an apartment with my cousin Dan. I’d work out using his dumbbells while watching shows like Great Chefs of the West.

I never intended to become a chef, really, although in the back of my mind I think I always knew it would happen. I studied aeronautical engineering at ASU hoping to become an astronaut or at least help design rockets and airplanes. I worked part-time at a restaurant in Tempe, AZ to pay for college and after awhile I couldn’t resist the culinary bug any longer. So here I am, almost eighteen years working in restaurants and thirteen years a graduate of culinary school. Sometimes destiny is like an annoying telemarketer who keeps calling and calling until you can’t help but answer the phone.