End of Act One

My edible life seems to be taking a slightly surreal turn. On the carpet before me, two elements of my immediate future have collided and the realisation of the challenges ahead are beginning to hit home. My fellow initiates, some more confident than others, have started to unwrap what they have before them. We groan as the first struggles with sticky treacle. We wince at the sight and smell of pesto. We envy the guy with nothing at all. Then it's my turn. Nervously, cluelessly, I fumble with the tabs and open up the nappy. It's flecked with brown and yellow and my mind wanders off to the 'name the ingredient' tray of our theory exam. "Dijon mustard", says the NCT teacher, and despite my desire to inform her that it's wholegrain not dijon, I keep schtum. I may have been able to cut the mustard in cooking theory, but when it comes to baby poo, I really do know jack.

These are moments you never forget. Seminal, life-changing moments that herald a new beginning. The sight of five grown men, armed with cotton wool, delicately wiping condiments off a plastic baby's bottom in front of their partners. The pride that comes with success. The confidence to take on the future, no matter how scared we really are.

The end of NCT classes has coincided with the end of the Leiths Diploma and I now feel comfortable that I will know what to do in the event of contractions starting and a hollandaise splitting. Hopefully they won't happen at the same time as in a state of panic I'll probably throw ice cold water at Emilie and rush the hollandaise to hospital. Unfortunately we never covered placenta cooking in class but I'm thinking pan-fried with a sauce robert could turn into a Leiths classic and a good choice for next year's advanced practical. This year, my practical actually went ok, far from perfect but no disasters either.

Re-reading the first post of this blog from the 7th September last year, I realise just how much my life has changed. Making the decision to walk away from a successful, well-paid career was not an easy thing to do and I entered culinary school not really knowing if I could cook, just sure of the fact that it was something I loved to do. I was scared that cooking every day might somehow take the sheen off a favorite hobby, but thankfully, after this first chapter, I can say that it has done the opposite. I am fired up and ready for the next stage in my new career and excited about what the future may bring. In true, blubbing, Gwyneth Paltrow style, I do need to thank a lot of people for their amazing support over the past year. To the tasters, teachers, investors, listeners, classmates, and to everyone who has taken the time to read and comment on this blog. You know who you are. It came as a huge surprise to be voted Student of the Year 2008 by the teaching staff at Leiths but I know I would never have made it without your constant encouragement along the way. I hope you'll stay with me for part two of the story!

The end is nigh

This is it. 6 months of a professional cooking diploma comes to an end in the next seven days. Work experience is completed and my portfolio, costing exercises and other coursework have been marked and returned. My hygiene certificate says I'm hygienic, and my health and safety certificate says I'm healthy and safe. At least I didn't fail on any of those.

On Friday I sit the theory exam and then on Monday, the dreaded six hour practical exam will put the past two terms of culinary education to the test. Tomorrow we find out what we will have to cook, but word has it that we'll be making puff pastry by hand, a task so gruesome that it sends shivers down my spine just thinking about it. Wish me luck. I'm going to need it...

Genoise

There may come a time, and I'm hoping it's not in the near future, when I'm lying in a hospital bed following a triple heart bypass. I slowly awaken from the anaesthetic and in the mild confusion that follows, I wonder how I came to be in this strange place. Then I remember the first Genoise I made. I remember going to the scales in the kitchen and weighing out 280g of butter for the icing alone, looking at the yellow brick of fat, and thinking, 'that can't be good for you.' Then I remember whisking sweet meringue into the butter, plastering a slick of chocolate icing all over the sponge, and pressing praline into the sides. Then memories of chocolate fill my head, delicate curls scraped from the thinnest, darkest sheet to decorate the top. The day I made that Genoise, the day I had three, no four slices of the lightest sponge with the buttery-est icing in the space of three hours, that was the day that would put me on the path to the intensive care unit.

It was worth it.

Chelsea Buns

On the menu today were Chelsea Buns which rather disappointingly wasn't an exercise in using a turning knife to recreate young Miss Clinton's buttcheeks out of a nectarine. I'm not sure why Chelsea Buns are so called but I can't think that the name comes from that particular part of London. Just look at them. They're so unassuming, so down-to-earth, a little bit mumsy even. You can't imagine one in the passenger seat of an open top Ferrari cruising down the Kings Road, stereo blaring, sunglasses on, shouting "check me out, I'm a Chelsea bun!" It would be Like Delia Smith in head-to-toe Versace. It just wouldn't pull it off.

"You're not a Chelsea bun", onlookers would shout back, "you're a Wimbledon bun. Go back to your family home and darn some socks!" Maybe that or something in Arabic. Or Russian. Or Italian. Ciao!

I'm sure the likes of Jemima Khan and Tara Palmer Tompkinson would turn their noses up at a doughy Chelsea Bun and head straight for a dainty bit of patisserie. I can't really see Roman Abramovich tucking into a plateful in the Directors' Box at Stamford Bridge either. So why oh why are they called Chelsea Buns? I think it must be because technically, Chelsea Buns are made with an enriched dough, and Kensington and Chelsea is the most enriched borough of London. However unlike the denizens of Old Church Street and Cheyne Walk, Chelsea Buns are not enriched by diamonds, daddy's money, or shady oil deals, but larger quantities of sugar and butter which means that although they may not look that flash, they do have very good taste.

Unlike some people you might see in SW3.

And thee, a turner!

Have you ever made a boat out of a courgette? What about a barrel out of a potato? A whole chess set out of carrots perhaps? No? Then you haven't lived. The art of turning vegetables is a craft as useful as macrame or writing names on grains of rice and it's refusing to go the way of the Dodo.

Turning has been practiced for centuries, possibly even millenia. In 1772, the first recorded visitor to Easter Island, Jacob Roggeveen, was astounded by rows of giant sculpted marrows facing the ocean, each one 'turned' to take on a human form. In 1927 the faces of four former US presidents were successfully carved into the side of a turnip and became the inspiration for the cliff face now known as Mount Rushmore.

As trainee chefs, the very survival of this art form is unfortunately in our rather clumsy hands. By the sound of it, a global recession is guaranteed if we don't master our seven-sided potato barrels.

Looking around the kitchen I see faces contorted in concentration, tongues wedged in cheeks, and failed courgette boats littering the workstations. It feels like an episode of The Generation Game where couples try and follow the example of a master craftsman with huge comedic potential. Sadly though, our whittled courgettes have no hilarious phallic qualities and there's no Brucie to whip up the audience. What do points make? Prizes. But there are no prizes today, just sad-looking, odd-shaped bits of vegetable and no one seems to care.

Tired

4 weeks in and I'm beginning to settle into my routine. Our days are split into two halves and we either spend the morning in the kitchen and the afternoon in the demonstration room or vice versa. What doesn't change each week is the fatigue and the relentless pace of learning. Every night we write detailed time plans for the following day's cooking and for the past two weeks I've had after-hours lectures to familiarise myself with health and safety and all the essential but nasty details of salmonella and e coli.

All this means that updating the blog hasn't been as easy as I'd hoped but bear with me please and hopefully I'll be able to catch up on a few things at the weekend. I'm even more in admiration of Trig who keeps up his writing while holding down a full time chef's job over in Barcelona. I suppose he still has the energy of youth though!

Quiche Lorraine

I've never really fancied making Quiche Lorraine. The name just puts me off. It sounds so naff, so seventies, so Abigail's Party. I can just see it sitting there on the buffet table at a summer luncheon, right next to Salad Brian and Tart Janice. And yes, I know Lorraine is a region of France but the name just conjures up images of cockney actress Lorraine Chase or Scottish sofa hogger Lorraine Kelly, neither of whom seem remotely Gallic to me.

Being of an age when many of my peers are giving birth (well the female ones at least), the subject of names comes up fairly often. The resurgence of traditional names is evident and in a few years time teachers are sure to be battling to control classrooms of rowdy Oscars, Archies, and Jacks. I know many prospective parents who wander around graveyards looking for inspiration from Victorian headstones where Ethels, Ernests, and Elizas lie beneath layers of creeping ivy.

It's only a matter of time then before names fashionable in the 40's are cool again. Alan and Kenneth will once again have their day in the spotlight and in a few years MC Ronald may well be the hottest hip hop act on the planet. It's not inconceivable to think that a future girl band might consist of Maureen, Barbara, Deborah, Patricia, and Linda. Maureen will probably be the slutty one married to a footballer, Linda the ginger one that no one fancies.

All of which brings me back to Lorraine, and in particular the Quiche Lorraine that I made today at school. It was really a test of our shortcust pastry technique and I'm happy it passed with flying colours. I'm even happier to report it tasted nothing like Lorraine Kelly.

First Day At Leiths

For the next six months I'll be making my way across (the whole of) London to get to Leiths which has just relocated to Chiswick. It couldn't really be much further from South-East London but hopefully the daily three hour commute will be worth it.

On arrival at the school this morning we were issued with our chef's whites and all associated bits of uniform including a very fetching skull cap and neckerchief combo which I'm sure are all the rage in Milan right now. For the feet we have "kitchen trainers" although if you were to attempt the 100 metres in them, it would probably take you about half an hour. Take the thought of Nike Air Max out of your head and think standard issue orthopedic correction shoes. Cool.

The morning was spent in orientation, learning more about the course we were about to undertake and the way it will be assessed. Following its move from Kensington, the school has been fitted with brand new equipment and everything is gleaming and pristine, ready to be trashed by my wayward cooking.

This afternoon we dressed in our full kit and got to wield our knives for the first time. We did some simple knife skills revision and prepped a rack of lamb for cooking tomorrow. It was fun and as an added bonus, I managed not to chop any part of my body off. That was my main aim of the day accomplished then.

I think I will sleep well tonight!

No going back

This week I sent off a rather large cheque to Leiths to pay for my course which starts on January 7th. I was sent order forms for my whites and knives and they have been schnaffled away by a very kind Santa who will be delivering them to the school ready for my first day of training. I think I've now covered most of the techniques that are taught during term one, my breadmaking is becoming more consistent, and I have knocked up a couple of cakes including my first Victoria sponge. Every night, my very own Jeremy Paxman tests me on the difference between chopping brunoise, julienne, paysanne and jardiniere and I hope that by early January I will be at a satisfactory level to hold my own alongside my fellow starters.

On Thursday I was invited by Albion, a lovely advertising agency where I did my final freelance stint, to come in and give a talk about my career change. It was lovely to see them all again because they are genuinely some of the nicest people I've worked with in the advertising industry and they have been really supportive of what I'm planning to do. Instead of a standard talk I decided to host a foodie quiz and we did some cheese tasting and had some fun games of trying to identify spices by their aroma. I brought along some strange fruits and vegetables that I picked up at Borough Market and they had to name cuts of beef from a diagram of a cow. I really enjoyed myself and it was lovely talking to a group about something I'm genuinely passionate about. In return I was presented with a new cookery book, Beyond Nose to Tail, which is the follow-up to Fergus Henderson's Nose to Tail Eating. I've only eaten once at St John and it was a bizarre experience. Some of the recipes in the book are off the wall. I'm not sure I'll be rushing to cook braised squirrel anytime soon!

Day One

Eight years ago I quit my first job in advertising. I told my boss that I was tired of crunching numbers, bored of filling excel spreadsheets with coloured blocks, uninspired by spending corporate millions on colour double page spreads in the Sunday Times.

I told my boss I wanted to be a chef.

She did the most responsible thing possible under the circumstances. She reminded me how hard life was in the kitchen, how I'd have to start at the bottom and what a waste that would be of a university education. In short she implied that I would be mad to do such a thing and sent me for counselling where a dear old man suggested I apply my creativity in another area of the advertising industry. So i did.

I can't say I regret it. If I hadn't stayed in advertising and worked my way up the ladder, I wouldn't be in the financial position to do what I am going to do now. I had fun, I met interesting people, and did some good work. And I also got to work in Sydney, an experience which ended up refuelling my desire to cook. On returning from Australia I gave myself two more years to get out of advertising and that is what I have done.

Today is day one of a new life. I start the Diploma in Food and Wine at Leiths in January, a full time course leading to a professional catering qualification. I'll be skipping the first term so over the next four months I will teach myself new techniques and revise what I already know. I'll also be giving serious thought to what I will do once the course is over. Who knows where it will lead?

There are exciting times ahead, but it isn't going to be easy.

Bring it on.