My Bloody Kitchen Accident

My Bloody Kitchen Accident

In my constant strive for greatness, and teetering on an unhealthy obsession with perfection, I often take things “too far” when it comes to my craft. If I try a recipe or procedure, and it doesn’t work the first time, I tend to try it again…and again, until I’m satisfied with the result. For example, I once spent two weeks making caramel from scratch. At first, I wasn’t comfortable with the end result; the color was too dark, and the candy tasted a bit scorched. Other batches were creamy, and caramel-esque, but the texture was off… too brittle. I finally produced a chewy, creamy piece of candy…

The Summer of Crust was no different. I was on a quest to make the perfect pie. I had done my research; a combination of butter, shortening, salt and unbleached flour should make the perfect crust. My first pie came out tasting average, and more importantly, the crust unacceptable. Mealy and uncooked on the bottom, I had to do better.

“Your crust is fine, quit being so hard on yourself,” my family would tell me.

Fine?

In my book that translates to mediocre, and mediocrity terrifies me.

After 30 pies (that’s a generous estimate) and six weeks later, I finally produced a delicious pie with a flakey, buttery crust; finally, perfection.

My senior year in high school I lived with my father. Being a cook himself, he was very tolerant of my repetitive behavior when creating dishes. His curiosity would often get the better of him, and he would wander into the kitchen. He offered advice, but never impeded my creative process…thanks dad.

On this particular day (days really) I was working on making the perfect French fry. I had finally narrowed down the proper ingredients: peanut oil for frying= great taste, as well as a high smoke point. The oil had to be at 350 degrees for the unflawed fry. A large Idaho russet potato was my veggie of choice; they have low moisture content, and plenty of natural flavor.

The potatoes were carefully cut into strips (skin on); symmetrically precise so that each piece would cook evenly. After two dips in the oil (once for blanching) the end result was a delicious French fry- crispy on the outside and creamy and hot in the middle. A generous dusting of sea salt, and black pepper finished the dish; no ketchup needed.

On this particular occasion, I dropped a batch of fries into the hot peanut oil, but didn’t notice the spuds were covered with moisture. When the wet potatoes hit the oil, there was a loud barrage of crackling and popping. Caught off-guard, I took a step back to avoid getting burned from the ricocheting specks of flaming hot oil. At this point I found myself falling backwards, as I had left the dishwasher open. This fall caused a colossal crashing noise, and the first thing I noticed as I hit the floor, was the hyper-extended dishwasher door- my Dad was going to be pissed. As I pulled myself to my feet, I noticed a sharp pain in the back of my left leg. I turned my head to take a look, and noticed that a large steak knife had penetrated my thigh. It was more than troubling to know that several inches of cold steel, luckily clean, (I had just run the dishwasher) was now embedded in the meaty part of my leg. All I could think of were those cheesy slasher movies where the innocent, naïve college kid would find himself on the receiving end of a hatchet or other blade. Of course, my first impulse was to remove the knife, so I grabbed the handle firmly (because that’s how they do it in the movies) and slowly pulled the blade from my leg. I expected resistance, but there was none. I expected streams of blood too, but was pleasantly surprised to see only a few droplets; luckily, I had avoided that important artery-thingy.

I looked at the knife, and noticed that it was covered with a grotesque combination of blood and body particles. Slowly, I made my way into the living room where my father was sitting calmly, reading a book. His tranquility and composure quickly changed into concern, as he saw me standing before him with a bloody steak knife. He instructed me to lie on the floor, and began examining my war wound. Next he shaved the area around the gash, and said, “You’re very lucky; you missed the femoral nerve by 1/8 of an inch, and could have easily severed an artery.” I was very lucky that day that my dad is a doctor.

After a few weeks of recovery, I was back in the kitchen. Ganache was my next project, and I was determined to get it right.

There is a moral to this story. Being a chef isn’t easy; we make sacrifices, and sometimes exhibit obsessive-compulsive behaviors that confuse most normal people. Our craft is our life, and sometimes we forego our personal safety (and mental well- being) to achieve a desired result. It’s not that there’s anything wrong with what we do, it’s just important to be perfect… all the time.

Now excuse me while I go count my socks.

Chef Chuck
chuck@cooksandeats.com