What’s up Doctor Doolittle! I don't know if you tried those spring rolls I made at Rooster’s birthday party—the ones with avocado risotto and ahi, but that recipe qualified me for the Mid-West Regional Japanese rice cook off. The assignment: present two dishes (one hot, one cold) using rice in new and innovative ways. If I win the first competition, they'll ask me to create a third dish (a rice dessert). The final cook-off takes place in New York and is a battle between the midwest, west, and east coast champs. Grand prize? An all expense paid vacation to Japan. So that's the big news in my hemisphere. Not saving lives or anything, but certainly feeding them!
Dear Mama Mia, I'm writing you from a cooking school where round one is being filmed. Actually, I'm writing you from the hallway outside where round one is being flimed. I've been banished here while my competitors finish prepping inside the test kitchens. The other four people involved in the contest are professional chefs and their dishes are way complicated. While they're slicing and saucing away in there, the director kindly has asked me not to touch anything from my own arsenal. He says that if I do there won’t be anything for him to film come contest time. Guess that's a nice way of saying my recipes are simplistic. As for my oh-so-complex fellow contestants, I'm not sure I like them too much. One approached me and asked what type of curry powder I was using. I didn’t know and he said, “you don’t know what type of curry powder you’re using in your food?” Then he laughed. Rooster is supposed to be here at noon to offer moral support, so that'll be good. Okay, the big head honcho judge chef just sat down at the computer next to mine. I guess he's feeling insecure too.
Hey Blondie, I have a three-day weekend this week and am going to spend most of it playing with high gluten rice. That's right, I won that Japanese contest (the first round anyway) and am going to NYC for the finals in two weeks... Want to help me figure out flavors in a rice based dessert that is NOT a pudding? You know you love it.
Rooster, The house must get cleaned before I come home tonight. If you don't, feathers will fly. I can't believe a Japanese film crew is flying all the way out here just to do a two-minute profile. Weird. In one hour I’m supposed to meet them at the gym and they’re going to tape me sweating on some machines. That’ll be attractive. I’m dreading taking them upstairs to the office. Men carrying big cameras should only come to work when the worker in question has been employed for more than six weeks. Otherwise, said worker looks crazy. Sigh.
Doolittle! I keep getting these e-mails from a food stylist requesting ingredient lists and cooking procedures. Is it possible that this contest includes an actual professional who can make something I cook look good? You with your surgeon's precision would be so proud.
Blondie, Are you sure you can't come over for a final taste test? Rooster's reaching his breaking point with the savories and he swore off sugar last week. I swear, if he goes on any more of these absurd food kicks, I'm going to kill him. Anyway, I know you're trying to stay away from carbs (speaking of absurd food kicks), but I'm begging you, help a gal out. There's still something missing in the Cardamom Cake and the rice disk garnish for the curry is just plain sad. You've got the best taste buds I know. Please help.
Dear Mama Mia, Today (you're not going to believe this) I was up at five a.m. That's what stage fright will do to a gal. Once at the studio, a woman with meticulously penciled eyebrows plastered me with makeup and professed shock at my lack of cosmetic knowledge. Then it was down to the set where I was given a clean apron and shuttled to my stovetop. They gave me the center station, probably because I was the shortest, or the only female, or something equally superficial. A burly chef from the New Jersey country club scene was at my left and a hip, spikey haired fellow from the Ritz Carlton was at my right. Yikes. Turns out that food TV isn’t exactly real. A team of culinary school students followed my recipes and made these perfect little sauces and fillings, which I then assembled on camera to give to the judges. It was almost like real cooking—that is if real cooking meant skilled chefs are employed to do all the hard stuff.
Dear Doolittle, Mama Mia and Blondie: The judges said the competition was close. They said the winner won by one point. Alas, alack, I was not the winner <--- (this used to say "I was the loser" but I didn't like the way that looked.) The hip, spikey haired Ritz Carlton guy won. He’s 22 years old, speaks fluent Japanese, and plans to move to Tokyo in two years to cook at the new Ritz Carlton there. I suppose with those lofty goals I don't begrudge him the prize, the stinker. My one victory was that the audience overwhelmingly voted for me. Who could resist the contestant who ladled curry into a potholder when she got nervous? Americans love an underdog—there’s just something so attractive about struggle…
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