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{mr toad, 10th & howard}

I love surprises, and for my 47th birthday yesterday, Karen planned an overnight in Omaha, and it was just what the doctor ordered.

We ended the day at one of my favorite places in the world for live music. Mr. Toad’s is a small, corner bar in the Old Market with a small jazz combo that performs every Sunday night, and has done so for years. A few cats abide here (and I use that term respectfully, as that is how they refer to themselves) that are as faithful as a church lady, and last night was no different, so I pulled up a chair next to LeRoy, who seems to know everything I wish I knew about jazz. He me gave the back-story on the new guys sitting in with the group this session.

After being engulfed in the busy set, my head came up for air as the band took a break, and that’s when it dawned on me that there were eleven people in the audience. For a band this good, why were there no more than 22 ears to enjoy it? I wanted to feel bad for the musicians, but then I caught myself and realized that would not be necessary.

The guys played for each other as much as they did for us, and as they were packing it up at the end of the gig, one long standing member said thanks to the guest saxophonist, who replied, “thanks for the chance, man, I love it.”

Yes, he did. That much was evident.

I’m drawn to jazz because of the energy it emits. Much of the genre is meant to be enjoyed in the moment, because that is how it is created. A good session is one that simmers with a blend of that energy released together in concert with the other musicians in the mix. The more skilled the release, the hotter the music becomes. If you notice a similarity to creating good food beginning to form, the comparison is not stretch.

As a wannabe musician, I picture myself being able to release that energy via an instrument. But as a chef, I have that same opportunity to affect the outcome of my food. It takes the same coordination and communication between the line cook, the sous chef and the garde manger as it does between the brass and the rhythm section. The back and front of the house must be playing off the same charts; else cacophony is all the customer hears.

In both food and music, how you perform today is no guarantee of how it’s going to taste and sound tomorrow. Leftover bread and leftover songs don’t sell well.

I think we all have within us a level of energy that needs to be released. Energy found in the form of anger, grief, anxiety or creativity will eventually find an exit point. The question is; will it be intentional or accidental? Will it be constructive, or will it leave collateral damage. The oil spewing in the Gulf is a case in point. Properly contained, it can power a whole region. Mishandled and it becomes a pollutant of equal magnitude.

My restaurant has been an intentional effort to release my creative energy in a productive way. It is my canvas upon which I paint with simple food and drink. People who ask me how or why I work so hard and I say it’s only because there is still energy fueling it. If that fire fades from a lack of fuel, so will my cooking. This is another reason to maintain a sustainable life.

Like the musicians last night, if their main reason for playing is the approval of an audience, that’s a little like trying to heat the stove with kindling. It just won’t last. There has to be a pleasure in the act itself.

Granted, I admit that I cook to make people happy, but the x-factor in the equation is the number of people I need in order to feel like I’ve done my job well. Will I cook with the same commitment knowing that it might only be for eleven people, or do I need a house of a hundred to give me incentive to do my best? I don’t always have control over how many covers I serve, but I can dictate to my hands to work and play hard, regardless.

3:52pm

Feeling good about tonight's dinner service. The pork roast is falling apart as it should. The brisket will enjoy the extra time in the low heat. Black raspberry Ice Cream is starting to set. The bartender will be here in a few minutes to go over the new cocktail, The Chinese Bloody Mary, that I've been waiting to unveil. It's a tad spicy, but with the number of people who still order soup on a 95 degree day, this one should go over just fine.

I'm glad to see basil back in season. The aroma is so prevalent in the kitchen. It is sanguine at best, and demands attention like a colicky infant. It and a little tomato and olive oil are sufficient food on their own.

These are the days I enjoy, heat and all. It's because like the smell of basil, heat triggers a memory of childhood, of yearning for a simpler day of cooling off in the muddy farm pond, and taking a drink out of the hose.

Hope you enjoy your evening, and that it includes a meal with us

{young tomato forming in my garden}

My wife and I make a good balance as we think very differently about how to approach day to day operations. She is much more practical and action oriented, which I appreciate very much. In her mind, most everything could and should have been done yesterday. I, too, like results, but for some reason, deep in my DNA, appears to be etched a need to answer the “why” questions first. I want to be clear on why I am doing a particular activity before I throw myself into it fully.

As we come up on our third anniversary, and as I involve new staff, I have been reviewing some of the reasons behind how our restaurant works. At the foundational level, I have summarized what I believe the food at bread&cup represents. Simply stated, my food is:

“Handmade with Midwestern ingredients and a European influence”

Handmade

We make everything from scratch, if we didn’t, it wouldn’t be our food. Why do I want to serve you something that a machine stamped out by the millions in a large industrial, commercial kitchen? If someone else makes it, it’s not our food.

This may seem obviously elementary, but if you could pull back the curtain on many of your favorite corporate franchises, you would find very little cooking going on. Instead you would find a system that has been dumbed down and recorded in a manual that can be executed by an employee without possessing much skill or thought. What’s really going on in that kitchen is heating and plating. Making your food by hand allows us to rely on cooking fundamentals and actually cook your food

Midwestern ingredients

I will favor a local product whenever possible. I have worked diligently to source all of my beef, pork, and chicken from local farmers. I now have a supply of game at my disposal (rabbit, quail, and duck) and hopefully by this fall, my turkey will come from a local source.

This is why you don’t see fish on my menu. Here in Nebraska, we are about as far from the coasts as we can get, and by the time that lobster or scallop gets here, the cost goes up, and the quality goes down. And with so much other good available protein, I don’t need it.

Seasonal vegetables will always be front and center on my menu during growing season. Turnips or beets might not be your first choice as a vegetable, but since they are in their prime right now, I will try to present them in their most flavorful form.

I will make a deal with you. If am serving a vegetable with which you have a problem, like kohlrabi, or fennel, or turnips or kale; please try it. If you still don’t like it, I’ll bring you something else. The flavors of vegetables are best experienced in season with simple preparation

European influence

With a country as young as ours, and with so many cultural influences by founding immigrants, American food is at best an amalgam of these factors. Your favorite dishes most likely are a form of some kind of ethnic source different from your own that made its way here long ago. The same is true with the food I serve at bread&cup

I love the French for their breads, their use of sauces and for their disciplined cooking techniques. Knowing what a brunoise or julienne is standard information that can lead to better prepared food. The pastas of Italy are so simple, but so versatile to work with. The Spanish idea of tapas and small plates make sense to me, and thus this finds its way on my menu.

I appreciate the aspect of slower preparation and slower consumption. Americans tend to look at a menu in isolation, without thought of the rest of the party with whom we are dining. I don’t expect to create a revolution, but I do like pointing out to customers that our menu is designed to avoid the question, “what will I eat” and instead ask “what will we eat?”

Watching my wife go through cancer treatment is a little like finding yourself in a movie theater showing a film that you already know you don’t like. You can’t walk out in the middle of it, nor do you know how it’s going to end. You are left to watch scenes that don’t make sense and leave you wondering how this fits into the entire plot.

8am Monday morning found us in the treatment room of the Oncology Center, a spacious area with east facing windows overlooking a small wood with a swift creek from all the overnight rain. The clinic part was obvious from all the IV units next to the reclining chairs, of which Karen, being the first patient of the day, got her pick of the most comfortable. But medicine has taken the emotional element into consideration more now by providing these small comforts while diminishing the sterile environment that once was all we knew when going to see the doctor.

It’s been four weeks of non-stop motion from diagnosis, to surgery, to recovery, to pathology report, to shock, to consultation and finally, to treatment. Through it all, my wife has appeared normal. No signs, no symptoms, bounced back from surgery very quickly. It would be different had she been ill for three months, or suffered nauseous side effects or some visible sign of the disease. But no, nothing. All I have is information and data. But that will soon change and how ironic that it will be due to the cure rather than the disease.

As she was hooked up to the IV machine that would dispense the drugs, all of which look like nothing more than tap water in a bag, I found I had to develop a metaphor to help me cope with all I was observing. I couldn’t just think of this clear liquid called Taxol as just one more medication. I had to imagine it as stealth warfare.

I need a place to focus my energy as well as my prayer. The clear cell carcinoma that are present in her body are now my enemy, and Taxol are the Special Forces sent in to take back the ground that has been invaded. I get this idea from her oncologist, who seems to take cancer very, very personally. I will follow his aggressive lead, who doesn’t want the bad guys to win another one.

Neither do I.

{feeding the chickens at route 2, box 162, 1965}

My nephew got married last weekend in Springfield, MO, which gave me a chance to be with my mom and sister and her family for a couple of days. We had the usual good time together, sharing stories and laughing. In the midst of it all, I began to take note of how many times we mentioned, "like dad would say..." or "I remember dad always told me..." He had a million little sayings, many of which I use reflexively to this day.

Dad was an amazingly patient man with us kids, and my sister and I recalled this trait when he was teaching us how to drive. He would say very little, and leave the driving and directions to our judgment. In one of my first driving sessions, he actually let me back into a tree before he noted, "did you mean to do that?"

With my son behind the wheel driving home after the wedding, he missed our exit off the Interstate. And so I too, in fatherly fashion, trying to not be a backseat driver, found myself repeating something I heard him say a thousand times, "were you gonna turn back there?"

As a Father's Day tradition, I like to post this eulogy I wrote for my dad's funeral almost five years ago. He never got to see my restaurant. I never got to slide a pint across my bar in his direction. He never sampled my pork sandwich that I know he would have loved. But his mark is all over my food and drink, because he shaped me into the person that I have become. Food was not his area of expertise. He was not a chef. He was simply a good man. And for that I consider myself a very lucky son.

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It took a while, as it does for most youth, to realize that the vistas of the world I was seeing was a direct result of the shoulders I was standing on. I thought in order to matter in the world, you had to go out and conquer it. But what I have learned from my dad, the man named Jack Shinn, I now believe that it’s just the opposite. You make a difference by simply letting the world come to you, and then offering blessing to each and every person that comes your way.

From time to time, I would make it back to Route 2 Box 162, sometimes bringing university students with me to visit the farm and experience the country life. Without exception, every person I brought there was greeted by my Dad with a hug and a kind word. Sometimes those students would later tell me how much that meant to them. Dad seemed to think that it may be the only hug they got, so he would offer it. It didn’t matter the color of their skin or how long their hair was, they got the same attention. You make a difference by letting the world come to you and offer blessing to each and every person that comes your way.

As I got older, this lesson became more and more evident. People would say to me how much they appreciated Dad’s smile or sense of humor or offering a piece of candy. They remarked how positive he always was, how willing he was to help out. In his latter years, he dealt with much physical pain, but you would only know it through the grimace on his face. He never complained about it and never allowed it to rule his spirit.

No summary, however, would be complete without the story I have told many, many times. It’s a story that encapsulates his life and what he valued most. It’s a story that happened when I was about 12 years old, but I didn’t hear it until nearly 20 years later. The story takes place at Route 2 Box 162 Bartlesville. With very few kids around my age, I had to learn how to entertain myself. Dad helped that effort by buying me a little Yamaha 80cc dirt bike. That motorcycle provided me countless hours of fun. With 26 acres to my discretion, one would think that would be plenty of space for a 12 year old boy to ride. But for some reason, I decided to include the front and back lawn in that 26 acres. As you can imagine, motorcycle tires are not kind to growing grass, and it didn’t take long before a nice little path was worn around the front of the house, to the back of the house, then out to the pasture. Round and round I would go, living in my mind the adventure of being a world-champion racer, or being chased by bad guys.

This path was pretty unsightly, given that it was visible to everyone that passed on the road out front. One time a neighbor had stopped by to visit and he asked Dad this question. “Jack, how come you let your son tear up the yard like that? Why don’t you make him keep out in the pasture?”

Now this was a pretty logical question given the amount of land we owned, but my Dad’s wisdom sometimes defied logic. To know my Dad was to know what a deep reservoir he was. Even though he was a man of few words, he was also a man of countless thoughts and musings. In these past few days, I have read many of those thoughts recorded in the margins of his Bible.

I believe what set my Dad apart was his ability to look at his choices and side with that which was of most importance. In other words, he had his priorities right. He responded to the neighbor by saying. “The grass will come back” he said, “but the boy won’t.”

Now if you drive by Route 2 Box 162 today, you will see the grass has come back. The boy lives in Lincoln, Nebraska in a home of his own, with two kids of his own. He hopes to be the kind of man Jack Shinn was, a man who hopes that as the world comes to him, that he will offer blessing to each and every person that comes his way.

We will miss you, Dad

We had our consultation with the cancer specialist at the Omaha Med Center yesterday to get his prognosis of the situation. After an hour and a half of facts, data, and analysis, we have a game plan and are prepared to begin the fight against this disease.

What makes this difficult is how both Karen and I have faced our own illnesses in the past. Lie down, take an aspirin, gut it out, let it pass, and move on. That works with the flu, strained muscle, or a stomach bug or the occasional allergic reaction, but not in this case. This situation is beyond our control at many points and we have to trust in the medical community to give us the best information they have, upon which we will make our decision about treatment.

Both doctors we met with say she is the ideal candidate for an Intraperitoneal treatment of this cancer. To avoid making this too technical, this is where they inject the drug directly into the lower abdomen and allow a localized effect. As with all chemotherapy treatments, there are pluses and minuses, so we hang onto the hope for the positives to take hold and pray against the negatives from happening.

I said above that the situation is beyond our control mostly, but we do know that nothing can rule our spirit if we don't allow it. Karen is extremely positive at this point, and is a pioneer woman at heart. This is the woman I watched bear both of our children naturally, without painkillers, by choice, because that's the way women did it for years. It was this strength that drew me to want her to be my wife, and it is proving to be a solid part of her being.

The chemo will start in two weeks. Until then we will probably not know much new. Thank you for allowing these posts to be adequate. With the added workload, I am unable to answer a lot of my calls, say nothing about returning them. Karen noted last night how loved she feels from all the flowers and other kind gestures. Thanks to John for cleaning my gutters, and Mike and Willy for mowing my yard. It does not go unnoticed, nor unappreciated.

ks

I love strawberries, and everything you can do with them, pavlova being one of the many applications with this June fruit. We get ours from Princeton Produce, a farm about 20 mi south of town. The advantage of their close proximity is ripeness. Cut one of these berries in two and you will reveal a solid red core. Compare it to your fat, shiny grocery store variety that has a hollow, pale white center. Sure the season is longer, but the quality is far inferior, so why bother? Live with the limitation that the growing season imposes. You will enjoy them far more this way.

Here's a current favorite cocktail recipe that has been a hit. Try it at home and see if it compares to ours:

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In a shaker with ice, add:

1 oz fresh lime juice

1 egg white

½ oz Cointreau

1 oz gin

½ oz strawberry puree

½ oz simple syrup

Shake thoroughly. Serve in martini glass. Garnish with lime or strawberry wedge

{photo}

Finally taking a few hours to slow down in the haven that is my back patio. When the pace of life gets so frenetic, like this week has been, I will come out here, sit and do nothing but listen, not just to music, but to the sounds of a noisy suburban wildlife. The night sounds in a Nebraska summer are full of steady noises of happy critters singing their songs until the wee hours of the morning, when they appear to have sung their hearts out and the dawn reminds them to retire for another session.

I believe in the Wisdom of Solomon, who wrote that there is a time and place for everything, and a season for all types of activity. For me to live as a sustained chef, there is a time to cook, and a time to eat. There is also a time to feed others and a time to be fed myself.

And as a chef who owns his own restaurant, there are many times when I have to patiently wait for that next season to come. Just as Fall brings relief from the Summer heat, so Sunday also brings me a day to become a beneficiary of its coverage. The demands and challenges of this week eventually gave way to reprieve offered by the dappled green rays of sunlight filtering through the mesh of leaves on my 30yr old ash tree that stands guard over my little screened-in sanctuary.

I like to compare my work and personal life with the ebb and flow of a river rather than the balance of a scale. Balance implies equality, with equal forces being maintained on either side of the fulcrum, while the former indicates movement, steady and constant, though not always at the same rate or force. As a chef and owner, I don’t have the luxury or ability to create balance, but I can move into more calm waters as I see them available.

This will always be the challenge of an entrepreneur. Since we are not allergic to work, we will always lean in the direction of accomplishment over self-preservation. To sustain such endeavor, it pays to pay attention to the season in which we find ourselves and not always look for an Endless Summer.

My playlist this morning includes a mix of Irish songs, traditional jigs & reels that are best described as happy in their sound. I don’t know why I gravitate toward this style of music, but I think it might have something to do with Irish history. I ask myself, “How can a group of people with a heritage of being invaded, robbed, looted and mistreated still be known for a saying like “The Luck of the Irish?” They appear to know something about sustainable living that I need to investigate.

This is how my Memorial Day weekend starts, which is only one day, but nonetheless, I'll treat it like a holiday. Putting this big pork roast in the smoker this morning and letting it go low and slow all day for our staff to enjoy tonight. This is a cut from a Berkshire hog from TD Niche Pork and please don't let Travis hear you call it "The Other White Meat." As you can see, this heirloom breed has a darker color, which translates to richer flavor. This is what pork should look like, and how it should taste.

Thanks to all who have asked about, prayed for, brought food and flowers to Karen this week. All the the colorful displays around the house are a visual reminder of your love and concern.

My dad had a saying when I was younger; “Son, into each life, a little rain must fall.” That’s a nicer way than saying “No one gets through life without having to take a bite of the shit sandwich." Our portion came in the form of a diagnosis this week that my wife has ovarian cancer.

This is the “worse” part of the, “for better or worse” promise we made to each other 20 years ago.

Last Wednesday, during her annual medical exam, her OB detected a mass in her lower abdomen and investigated further with an ultrasound. He found a large mass (12.5cm) attached to her right ovary and quickly scheduled surgery for Monday morning to have it removed. We waited three days on the lab report and discovered Thursday that the mass that was removed from Karen's right ovary was indeed cancerous, showing two types of diseased cells. One he described as less aggressive, the second more so.

His advice to us was to focus on the positive aspects of this discovery, the first being how early this was detected. There is microscopic evidence in two areas of remaining cancer cells, but he added that chemotherapy does its best work at this level. She will meet with an oncologist in two weeks to determine the next level of treatment.

In the initial minutes after the doctor left the room, we sat in silent disbelief, trying to get our head around what exactly this will mean. Karen’s first response was, “I guess I’m not the first woman to find out she has cancer.”

How instinctive our nature is to take solace in community.

I remember when Karen first became pregnant 20 years ago, and miscarried that pregnancy while only about 8 weeks along. As a young couple, we were obviously sad and uncertain about what had just happened. Then, a surprising number of women came to her side with a similar story, “That happened to me, too.” It didn’t make the pain go away, but knowing that there were others who knew what this felt like and could articulate it was more than helpful; it was incredible.

At this point there are more questions than answers. Karen will be off her feet for a few weeks and away from the restaurant. Thanks to the many of you who have sent flowers, email and text messages saying that you care. We do have a good community.

Some of our bounty this morning. Menu is posted at www.breadandcup.com

It was one of those nights you can’t plan for; you just tighten your belt, grit your teeth and plow ahead.

It started when my prep cook called in sick earlier in the day, and so I adjusted my prep schedule to get a few more things done before my afternoon break. But when my sous chef called saying he was throwing up, that left me to get the whole list finished.

So I 86’d a few menu items and simplified the options a bit, enlisted one of my assistant managers to help out in the kitchen, and when the first ticket chattered off the printer at 6:01pm, it was do or die time.

Orders kept pouring in and it took a while for my crew to get our feet underneath us, and consequently our ticket times were a little longer than I would like.

But redemption came when a server came back checking on estimated time of delivery of entrees for a couple who was in a hurry. Since we were behind the eight ball, I just gave a guestimate and went on cooking.

Later, our host came in to say that the couple in a hurry decided to change their plans, and once they got their food and their entire demeanor changed. So much for “get in, get out, get on with your life…”

Granted, I would rather the decision to slow down be yours and not based on an overtaxed kitchen, but if you do decide to take it easy and let your evening progress slowly, I think you will be glad you did.

Sold out of all our proteins, and many of the midcourses. So hard to predict a Market Day. But the preacher should listen to his own sermon, and not fret over what I can’t change.

I know, I know it Merlot!. But here's the thing. Merlot wasn't the problem with Merlot. The winemakers attempting to make a quick buck was the problem with Merlot. Charles Smith of Washington makes an excellent Merlot. Just enough fruit, excellent tannins and yes velvety (if that is even a word). Just an enjoyable experience. If you can find it, you should try it.