to bake, perchance to sleep

On winter nights when I cannot sleep, I like to bake scones.

Nights when the wind is brutal and rattles my windows, when midnight has passed and the world is quiet, I turn on the oven and ready my mixing bowl.

Though I have declared myself to be on a quest for the perfect scone, I am in no hurry to find it. The pleasure of baking scones lies in the process, in playing with the recipe, and the motions soothe a restless mind.

Baking soda, baking powder, a mixture of both. Wet, sticky dough for dense, moist scones. Dry, butter-rich dough for light, crumbly scones. Rolled scones, stamped out using a small-mouthed jam jar. Wedge scones, from rounds of dough cut into sixths.

Scones with milk, with buttermilk, with light cream. Scones with yogurt, with sour cream. Even scones with fresh apple cider, in the absence of dairy.

New variations pique my interest. The latest: a scone with cream, not butter, studded with dried cherries, scented with orange zest and vanilla. Folding the gently whipped cream into flour is like working with a pillowy cloud. The dough is soft and airy, carefully shaped into rounds, cut into wedges with a table knife.

The scones bake at moderate heat until pale gold in color, set on a wire rack to cool. They fill the room with their warm aroma. In the morning, breakfast holds the promise of a soft, tender crumb, a sweetness punctuated by bursts of tart, bright fruit.

Restless thoughts quieted, I turn to bed. The scent of baking lingers, easing my dreams.

Cream Scones with Dried Cherries and Orange Zest

If you can't find dried cherries, this recipe also works with cranberries.

(Inspired by this recipe from Orangette. Makes one dozen.)

Preheat oven to 350F. Line two baking sheets with parchment paper.

In a mixing bowl, whisk together three cups of flour, two teaspoons baking powder, one-third of a cup of white sugar, and a half-teaspoon of salt. Grate in the zest from one orange, and set aside.

In a second bowl, whip two cups of heavy cream with a half-teaspoon of vanilla essence until it just holds soft peaks. Fold in one cup of tart dried cherries.

Pour the cream into the flour mixture and fold gently with your hands until a soft dough forms. Don’t worry about getting it perfectly smooth – some crumbly bits are fine.

Divide the dough into two halves. Shape each half into a round, and cut each round into sixths. Place the wedges on the baking trays and put the trays in the oven.

Bake for fifteen minutes, then switch the position of the trays, and bake for another fifteen to twenty minutes, or until the scones are just starting to brown on top.

Transfer to a cooling rack. Serve with tea or coffee.

O.N.C.E. in the New Year, or an evening of being a worrywart

"What course are we on?"
"Do the fish need to go in the oven yet?"
"Can someone grab more garlic?"

I'm standing at the kitchen sink at O.N.C.E in the New Year. I have a soapy sponge in one hand, and a dirty platter in the other. I know I look like I'm focused entirely on cleaning the dishware that is starting to pile up, but my thoughts are very much elsewhere.

I am worrying about the fish. More precisely, I am worrying about the haddock en papillote with wheatberries and lemongrass-sake reduction. And I am worrying about the haddock en papillote with wheatberries and lemongrass-sake reduction not so much because the haddock needs to be worried about, but because worrying about it keeps me from worrying about the vegetable dumplings that immediately follow.

If I had any spare circuits left in my brain, I might wonder how I got here. I think JJ Gonson is at least partly to blame.

When JJ announced O.N.C.E in the New Year, I expressed interest in reprising my role as minion, thinking that I'd be signing myself up for another episode of prepping and plating, albeit with less cabinet-trolley wrangling.

Instead, I found myself at the planning meeting a week before the event, brainstorming ideas for a ten-course feast composed of dishes considered to bring good luck. The menu we settled on consisted of potato latkes with sour cream and applesauce, a lucky eight-bean soup, Oysters Rockefeller, a green salad with beets, "black-eyed peas" and sauteed greens, haddock en papillote, vegetable dumplings, fresh egg noodles with short rib ragu, ginger ice-cream with benne wafers, and galette des rois.

(If you'd like to see the food, try LimeyG's writeup. Try not to drool.)

The haddock en papillote and vegetable dumplings may or may not have been the result of my mouth moving too quickly for my brain during the brainstorming. Which probably explains why I end up in charge of the dumpling-making on Thursday, and spend the hour before the meal frantically pleating little parchment packets of haddock.

Which entirely explains why I'm now worrying about the haddock in an effort to not worry about the dumplings.

The worrying is probably unnecessary. The food, from what I've tasted, has been excellent. The Oysters Rockefeller (we had a few extra) were soft and briny beneath a golden layer of spinach, cheese, and breadcrumbs. The dressed beets in the salad were sweet and tangy. JJ sauteed an extra pan of greens for the kitchen crew because we were fighting for the scraps on the platters. Our guests seem happy. I shouldn't be worrying. Really, I shouldn't.

After the fish go into the oven, I wash more dishes, try not to worry about the dumplings, and briefly wonder if it's too early to break out the beer.

The fish leave the oven and are whisked away for serving. I hear one or two remarks of "Don't eat the paper! It's not edible!", leaving me to briefly worry about choking hazards. I finally stop worrying about the fish after I try some myself, and confirm that it's nicely moist and flaky.

Unfortunately, no longer worrying about the fish means I have nothing left to distract me from worrying about the dumplings. The grapefruit palate cleanser that follows the fish should, by all rights, give me some breathing room, but instead it just gives me more time to worry about the dumplings.

Cooking the dumplings is just a matter of dropping them in boiling water and waiting until they're done. Unfortunately, the timing's a little tricky. We froze the dumplings for ease of storage and transportation, and while the filling of cabbage, onion, carrots and mushrooms is fully cooked, it still needs to thaw and heat up, and I'm not sure how long that will take.

We have two pots of boiling water going. Jack is keeping an eye on one while I keep an eye on the other, waiting for me to give the signal that the dumplings are ready. I don't really have an idea of when that will be. We finally decide that the easiest way to tell is just to cut one open and find out.

At four minutes, they're still cold in the middle. At five, they're lukewarm. I start wondering about beer again. Finally, at seven, we're good to go. We send out platters of dumplings as they cook, figuring that hot dumplings and staggered service is better than cold dumplings served to everyone at the same time.

I finally relax a little when the empty dumpling platters come back to me at the sink. All the courses that follow are those that I had no part in preparing, so my duties are limited to making sure the servers have what they need, and I can focus my energies on snagging a taste of any leftovers.

There are extra noodles and plenty of ragu, so I scrounge up a teacup and a spoon and take bites between washing dishes. The noodles are eggy and chewy, and the ragu is rich and deeply flavored. The course gets rave reviews from our guests and the crew.

Once the serving bowls for the noodles and ragu are deposited in the sink, we move on to the dessert courses. I put down my sponge briefly to help carry dishes of ginger ice-cream and benne wafers (a traditional Southern cookie) to the tables.

I had a chance to taste the ice-cream after JJ churned it, but the benne wafers and galette des rois were baked in Jen's kitchen, and I haven't had a chance to get my greedy little hands on any until now. I snag a benne wafer from the box of extras - it's sweet, light and crisp, and the sesame seeds give it a pleasantly nutty flavor.

The ice-cream dishes are collected and stacked, and Jen sets out a fresh set of plates, setting on each a slice of galette des rois (a French cake consisting of layers of puff pastry sandwiching a filling of frangipane) - and a single candle.

The candle isn't a traditional part of the galette des rois, but JJ has decided to establish a New Year's tradition of her own. She asks everyone to light their candle, set it in their slice of cake, and make a wish for the New Year as they blow it out.

I admit, my thoughts aren't on wishes. I was one of those impatient children who viewed birthday candles as a roadblock to the consumption of birthday cake, and frankly, not much has changed. My sights are set on the extra slices of cake that Jen has left out for the kitchen crew. I know galette des rois to be absolutely delicious, and Jen's version doesn't disappoint: the puff pastry is buttery and flaky, and the filling is sweet and richly eggy.

When the cake plates come back to the kitchen, dinner service is officially over. The guests trickle out, looking well-fed and happy. We break out the beer, and begin cleanup in earnest.

Upon reflection, I do have a wish: I wish I won't be such a worrywart at the next O.N.C.E.

solving culinary dilemmas

Q: What do you get if you cross a turkey with an octopus?
A: A leg for everyone at Thanksgiving.

Though I'm sure the reality of an eight-legged turkey would be horrifying, the old joke does remind me that I sometimes think the mad scientists are putting their efforts in the wrong place. Pesticide-resistant corn? Tomatoes that won't soften after ripening? Really, if we're going to tinker with genetic codes to produce Frankenfood, the least it could do is solve some culinary dilemmas.

I know it's petty, but I'm sure I can't be the only cook who has ever fantasized about eggs that are all yolk and no white. I'd even settle for consistently double-yolked eggs. Or eggs with a smaller quantity of white. Something, anything to avoid the Tupperware container of leftover egg whites that inevitably ends up in my fridge after I make ravioli or lemon curd.

I know there are solutions. Though I think egg-white omelettes are an affront to breakfast, and find the texture of meringue kisses to be unpleasantly Styrofoam-like, I can make gnudi after I stuff my ravioli, using the egg whites as a binder. Or, if I'm in the mood for something sweet, I can whip up a pavlova.

Unfortunately, freezer space tends to be at a premium after I've made ravioli, so gnudi are difficult to store, and a whole pavlova is a bit much for individual consumption. And so I still find myself needing new ways to get rid of those damn leftover whites.

The latest idea I've seized upon is inspired by macarons, those jewel-toned French petits fours, albeit with considerably less precision. A stiff meringue batter, when blended with crushed nuts, dolloped onto trays, and baked in a hot oven, produces a cookie that has a light, crisp shell, and a chewy, pliable interior. They are on the sweet side, but they're light, and they're perfect for an afternoon snack with a cup of tea.

On second thought, would someone give the mad scientists a call? Tell them they can go back to tinkering with the DNA of corn and tomatoes. The eggs are fine just the way they are.

Delinquent Macarons

There is no fixed list of nuts or flavorings for this recipe. I'm fond of almonds with citrus peel, and hazelnuts with cocoa (pictured above), but feel free to use whatever catches your imagination.

(For every egg white, you'll get about half a dozen macarons. Will keep in an airtight tin for a week or two, though they will start to dry out like classic meringues if you leave them for too long.)

This isn't so much a recipe as a ratio. For every one egg white you're trying to use up, you want one-third of a cup of sugar, and one-third of a cup of nuts. If using cocoa powder, add one tablespoon per egg white. If using any kind of essence, add a half-teaspoon per egg white. And if using fresh citrus zest, one lemon or orange's worth is enough for three or four egg whites.

Once you've figured out your math, dump the nuts in a food processor and blitz until crushed. Set aside.

Preheat the oven to 350F. Line several baking trays with parchment paper.

If you have a stand mixer or other mechanical mixer, combine the egg whites and sugar and let the machine work its magic. If you, like me, are doing this the old-fashioned way, dump the egg whites in a big bowl, add a pinch of salt, and get to work with your balloon whisk.

Once your egg whites are stiff, beat in the sugar a little at a time, followed by whatever flavorings you're using. Add the crushed nuts, and fold them in with a spatula.

Glop golf-ball sized dollops of batter onto your baking tray using a measuring cup or a big spoon, leaving space in between for the macarons to spread. Bake for twelve to fifteen minutes, or until hard to the touch. Allow the macarons to rest on the baking tray for a few minutes before transferring them to a wire rack to cool. Serve with tea or coffee.

baked pasta and boiler woes

I woke up to perfect silence on Thursday morning.

As a premature curmudgeon who tends to think that the world is too loud, I'm usually grateful for moments of quiet. Perfect silence is a rare and precious commodity. I would have been delighted to lie in bed and savor it, were it not for one tiny detail: perfect silence in my apartment is a sign that the heat isn't working.

I live in an old building, and my apartment is heated by an old-fashioned, cast-iron steam radiator. Though it's a highly effective producer of heat, it also generates a steady stream of gurgling, clanking, and whistling noises. The radiator is only ever quiet when it's off, and I knew it was very much on when I went to bed Wednesday night. Putting a hand out from beneath the covers confirmed my suspicions: the radiator was cold to the touch. Judging by the chilly air in the room, it had been off for several hours.

The radiators are powered by a boiler in the basement, which also happens to be the building's hot water heater. If the heat is out, chances are high that there's no hot water either. And while sponge baths don't faze me, I know from painful experience that it is an absolute nuisance to have to wash dishes by heating water on the stove.

Suffice to say, I was very reluctant to get out of bed. I dragged myself out from beneath the covers only because the second week of the semester is too soon to start skipping class, even for me. I dressed in extra layers, but between the lack of heat and the wait in freezing wind for the T, I was feeling chilled to the bone by the time I got to school.

The classroom, while not unpleasant, was hardly toasty. Coffee helped slightly, but I still didn't want to take off my coat. I spent the entirety of Antitrust class thinking about soup and stew and polenta and other warm, comforting dishes instead of paying attention to the professor's lecture on perfect monopolies.

Thankfully, upon returning home after class, I was greeted by warm air and the radiator's familiar gurgle and clank. Maintenance had fixed the boiler. One hot shower later, I had thawed out, and I felt free to make comfort food without worrying about the logistics of cleanup.

I decided on baked pasta, because the only thing better than plain pasta with lots of melted cheese (one of my favorite comfort foods) is pasta with lots of melted cheese and crispy, crusty edges.

I have two rules when I prepare baked pasta: 1. It's all about the pasta and cheese. 2. Not too much sauce.

This means no strange additions - this is not an anchovy-appropriate pasta dish, for example. It also means cooking up a sauce that is thick, but not heavy.

A mixture of pureed onion and tomato paste may sound peculiar, but it produces a sauce that clings nicely to the pasta without pooling in the bottom of the dish. The onions mellow after simmering, and the tomato paste adds an appealing umami-sweet element.

The finished dish is deceptively moreish. If you're anything like me, you'll be picking at the leftovers when cleaning up, possibly going after the leftovers in the fridge after midnight, and then wondering two days later if it isn't too soon to make it again.

I'm certain it'll make a reappearance before the winter is out. Hopefully, the same cannot be said of my building's boiler woes.

Baked Pasta with Oniony Tomato Sauce

You can use Italian sausage in the sauce, but it's an entirely optional extra.

(Serves one, provided you like leftover baked pasta. Particularly if you like it cold from the fridge for breakfast.)

Take two white onions, cut them up roughly, and blitz in a food processor until you have onion puree. Set aside.

Set a big pot on the stove (large enough to hold both sauce and a half a pound of pasta.) Melt a tablespoon of butter over low heat, and add the onion puree.

(If you're making this pasta with sausage, omit the butter. Take an Italian sausage, remove the casing, and cook over low heat until meat is nicely browned, then add the onion puree.)

Cook, stirring well, until the onions are no longer giving off fumes. Add a can of tomato paste, and stir it in. Add a little water, and keep the sauce at a low simmer.

Bring a big pot of salted water to a rolling boil, and throw in half a pound of penne, ziti, rigatoni, or other short pasta. Cook until the pasta is just a little harder than you want the finished result to be - that is, cook it to al dente if you'd like the baked pasta to be very soft, and cook it until it's still a little raw and floury-tasting if you'd like the baked pasta al dente. Drain (do not rinse); set aside.

Simmer the sauce for another ten to fifteen minutes; add salt to taste. (Go lightly. You'll be adding cheese.) Turn off the heat; add the drained pasta and mix well.

Preheat the oven to 350F.

Take a glass or metal baking dish and lightly grease with a little oil or butter. Add the sauced pasta. Cover with one to one-and-a-half cups of grated cheese, exact variety up to you. (I used a mixture of Comte and mild cheddar, because it was what I had on hand.)

Transfer the baking dish to the oven. Bake for forty to fifty minutes, or until cheese is melted and develops crusty bits.

Remove from oven; allow to cool for five to ten minutes before serving.

Note: If you prefer your pasta heavier on the sauce, use a mixture of tomato paste and crushed or pureed tomatoes.

reason enough for celebration

When the pilot makes his final announcement before descending into JFK airport, I always brace myself.

No, I have no fear of flying. I don't get airsick. And bumpy landings don't affect me. Instead, I take a deep breath and ready myself for the worst when the pilot announces the weather conditions in New York.

If I'm lucky, the temperature is just a little below zero, and there hasn't been much snow. If I'm less fortunate, the temperature is something that means nothing in Celsius or Fahrenheit (beyond a certain point, it's all "too damn cold") and there's a foot of old snow on the ground. If I'm really, truly out of luck, there's been snow, a few warm days, and then a cold snap that's left ice slicks everywhere.

And that's before I even get to Boston.

This time, I was lucky. Cold, but not brutal weather in New York, and I was pleasantly surprised to see clear footpaths when I arrived in Boston. When I woke up the next morning, there was even a blue sky overhead. Best of all, I'm back in my own space, reunited with my kitchen.

Which is all reason enough for celebration - in other words, time to bake.

Winter is when I like to focus on lemon desserts, because the vivid yellow fruits brighten my mood. Lemon curd - a simple mixture of eggs, sugar, and lemon juice, thickened over heat and enriched with butter - is one of my favorite starting points.

Lemon curd can be used as a filling for a tart shell, but it also serves as an excellent (and gluten-free) base for a souffle. Light, fragrant, and satisfyingly lemony, it does a wonderful job of chasing away winter blues. And that may be a reason for a celebration of its own.

Lemon Curd Souffle

This will also work with lime.

(Recipe not for one.)

Prep first. Get out two big bowls, one metal, and one big balloon whisk or electric mixer. Wash everything in hot soapy water and dry thoroughly.

Preheat the oven to 375F.

Lightly butter and sugar a souffle dish.

Separate six eggs. Put four of the yolks in your metal bowl; put the whites in the other. (Leftover yolks can be used for pasta or mayonnaise.)

Fill a small saucepan with half an inch of water, and bring to a simmer. Add half a cup of sugar to the four yolks in your metal bowl, and set it atop the saucepan. Stir until the sugar dissolves, then whisk in one-third of a cup of lemon juice. (If you're feeling impatient, this can also be done in a heavy-bottomed pan directly over very low heat.) Once it thickens, remove from heat and whisk in two tablespoons butter. Set aside.

Beat the six egg whites with a quarter-cup of sugar until stiff peaks form. Using a rubber spatula, glop half the egg whites into the lemon curd mixture, and fold in gently. Add the other half, and fold in gently until no streaks remain.

Spoon the mixture into the souffle dish. Bake for 40-50 minutes, or until light and risen, but still wobbly in the middle. Carve out portions with a big spoon. Serve immediately.

anti-vegemite

Generally speaking, there is not much danger in being an Australian abroad.

Unlike Americans, who run the risk of being dragged into all a manner of unpleasant discussions with regards to their president, their politics, and their culture, Australians can escape with just a few potshots at their drinking habits - and if those firing the volleys are British - the performance of their cricket team. No-one has a bone to pick with the Australians. They're quite content to make silly references to Crocodile Dundee.

Unless Vegemite comes up. Then all bets are off.

Vegemite, for the uninitiated, is a dark, sticky sandwich spread that looks like engine grease and tastes like concentrated soy sauce. It is apparently rich in Vitamins B1 and B2. Its television jingle is bested only by the one for Aeroplane Jelly in sheer irritation quotient.*

Consumption of Vegemite involves generously buttering two slices of bread, and then applying the thinnest layer possible of Vegemite to one slice before putting the two together. (If you are an Australian schoolchild, you might also add a slice of cheddar cheese.) Applying a layer of Vegemite to each side, or applying anything other than the thinnest layer possible, is... inadvisable.

As you might guess, Vegemite is an acquired taste. As you might also guess from my description, I never really acquired it. I'll eat Vegemite if there's nothing else available (or if I'm suffering a severe Vitamin B deficiency), but otherwise, I'll pass. And so when it comes up in conversation, I will either cheerfully join in the mockery, or offer an apology - whichever seems most appropriate.

I've heard many people recount their first encounters with Vegemite. As far as I can tell, they fall into three categories:

The Lemming. In which a friend wants confirmation that Vegemite is, indeed, just as awful as he or she thinks it is. Catchphrases: "This is the most revolting stuff I've ever eaten", "I'm not sure this qualifies as food", "You have to try this stuff to understand just how disgusting it is."

The Practical Joke. In which a friend, thinking that Vegemite must be something Australians like to feed to unsuspecting foreigners as a practical joke, decides to pass on the favor. Catchphrases: "I brought you this amazing stuff from Australia!", "No, you need to spread it on more thickly", "I know it looks terrible, but it tastes great."

The Unknown Horror. In which an unsuspecting foreigner doesn't experience Vegemite for him or herself, but gifts it to a friend anyway. Catchphrases: "I got you this stuff from Australia - I'm not quite sure what it is, but the natives love it", "They say it's a sandwich spread", "It's very popular. It must be pretty good."

The best (worst?) story I've heard belongs in the third category.

As Isobel tells it, she was five years old when her father came back from a business trip with an individual-serving container of Vegemite that he'd picked up on the plane. He had no idea what it was, and she, having never before encountered any sticky brown foodstuff that wasn't chocolate-based, assumed that Vegemite was similar. She took a generous spoonful. Her reaction, as you might imagine, was traumatized.

Stories like Isobel's make me think that a mere apology for the culinary atrocity created by my crazy compatriots may not be sufficient. I think it probably does take chocolate - and quite a lot of it - to compensate.

Which is why I'm going to invoke Nutella, the glorious Italian hazelnut-chocolate spread, as a sort of anti-Vegemite. I don't know that I can say anything about the marvels of Nutella that hasn't already been said. Like Vegemite, it's brown and sticky, but unlike Vegemite, it's chocolately and delicious, an absolute culinary joy. The simplest way to eat it is to slather it - thickly - on plain white sandwich bread, but it's quite happy in the company of butter and sugar too, as the pound cake below will attest.

If you've had an unhappy encounter with Vegemite, consider this a peace offering. If you haven't... well, if anyone tells you they brought you a present from Australia of the edible variety, and it's not a package of Tim Tams... you won't eat it, right?

*YouTube at your own risk.

Nutella Swirl Pound Cake

I found a reference to Nutella swirl pound cake on another blog when I was trying to figure out if anyone else had written about pound cakes and bumps. Nutella is a dense substance, however, so this pound cake contains a little baking powder to help with the rise.

(Serves one. Cake may be wrapped and frozen.)

Preheat oven to 325F. Ready a two-cup loaf pan.

Place a stick of salted butter in a large mixing bowl and let sit at room temperature until the butter is easily squashed with a fork. Add half a cup of white sugar, and cream the mixture together with a fork until smooth.

Stir in a quarter-teaspoon of vanilla essence, and a quarter-teaspoon of salt.
Crack in one egg, and beat until smooth. Crack in a second egg; beat until the mixture is thick and smoothish (it will look slightly curdled.)

Fold in a scant cup of flour and one-eighth of a teaspoon of baking powder. The batter should be smooth and creamy.

Spoon one-third of the batter into the baking pan. Add a generous dollop of Nutella, and use a spoon to spread it out. (Resist the urge to lick the spoon.) Spoon another third of the batter into the baking pan, and add another generous dollop of Nutella. (Keep resisting the urge to lick the spoon.) Spoon in the remaining batter, and run a skewer through the mixture to swirl it together. Give the pan a gentle shake to smooth out the top. Transfer the pan to the oven.

(Okay, now you can give in to that urge. Lick away.)

Bake for an hour, or until a skewer stuck in the middle comes out with only Nutella on it. Remove the pan from the oven. Let the cake cool in the pan for five minutes, then carefully turn it out on a wire rack. Allow to cool completely.

To serve, cut into generous slices. Skip the fork and lick your fingers.

an evening in the life of a minor demon

"Avarice needs to get moving in five minutes!"
"Someone get me more baking trays!"
"Where are the paper towels?"

According to Milton, Lucifer said that it was better to rule in Hell than to serve in Heaven. He never said anything about serving in Hell.

Probably just as well. From what I can see, it involves a lot of heavy-duty baking trays and swearing at a cabinet trolley. I suspect it probably wouldn't make for great literature.

I'm in the kitchen prep area at O.N.C.E in Hell, the ten-course dinner theater extravaganza based on Dante's Inferno, presented by Cuisine En Locale and Oberon. This is my third O.N.C.E, but it's the first time I've ever been present as a kitchen minion (or should that be minor demon?) Tonight's service is well under way: Gluttony (beans and slow-cooked pork ribs) has just left; Avarice (turnip flan with celery root mash) is coming up next.

The baking trays aren't for baking. We're using the baking trays - slotted into cabinet trolleys - to transport plates between the kitchen area and the backstage area. My task for the night is to stick with Jen, JJ's assistant, and help her get the food from one point to the other without any mishaps. Between courses, I'll be conscripted into doing whatever else needs to be done - like collecting and cleaning the baking trays as they come back from the kitchen, so that they're ready for the next course.

Oberon is a club, not a restaurant. There's a kitchen area with a sink and bar fridge, but not an actual kitchen. Instead, the O.N.C.E team has brought in steam cabinets, coolers, electric burners, microwaves, toaster ovens, fans and even a fryolator, to create one.

We have folding tables set up end-to-end to create a counter for plating. For Avarice, I help lay out trays of red-and-gold bordered plates; Trevor moves down the line with a piping bag of chocolate ganache, tracing dollar signs, and JJ and others follow with individual flans, tipping them out of the molds.

(No photos. My hands were full enough without a camera. But you could try the writeup here.)

I scramble for the paper towels so that we can wipe off any stray drips, help Jen move the trays of completed plates to the cabinet trolley, and take one end for the trip down the long, twisty, bumpy corridor to the backstage area, praying we'll make it without any mishaps.

Unfortunately, prayers don't count for much when they come from Hell. The trolley is old, and one of the wheels comes off its track when we're halfway down the corridor, causing the cabinet to tilt at an alarming angle. There's considerable cursing as we half-drag, half-carry the trolley to the backstage area, and we hold our breaths as we pull the trays, hoping none of the finished plates suffered any mishaps.

Thankfully, we're spared that fate. The plates are fine, and once they've tbeen handed off to the serving staff, we lug the trolley back to the kitchen area, where Annabelle manages to get it back on its tracks.

Now I just have to unload the trays, wipe down the trays, and start laying out plates (navy blue borders with gold edges) for Heresy while the rest of the team fills mugs with jasmine-scented kale salad for Wrath.

Our kitchen area isn't equipped to handle the kind of power a commercial kitchen demands. Tech has fiddled with the power so that we can theoretically run everything we need, but the circuits keep blowing. Trevor has been baking off the last of the pastry coffins in between blowouts, and the final batch has just finished cooling when we start to plate Heresy.

As Jen frantically communicates with front-of-house through her headset, we decorate plates with swirls of pumpkin puree, top them with pastry coffin vol-au-vents, fill the vol-au-vents with lobster salad, and add a final sprinkling of spicy dried chile powder.

Jen and I fill the cabinet with the trays of finished plates, and once again drag the trolley down the long, twisty, corridor, trying not to curse too much when we hit the bumps. We hand off the plates to the serving staff, and I drag the trolley back to the kitchen.

I'm starting to hate that trolley.

Violence is cold beet soup: the glass goblets are transported backstage in crates (no trolley!) and the serving staff pour the soup from pitchers. Our prep is thankfully minimal, giving me extra time to collect and wipe down baking trays for Fraud.

For Fraud, the menu indicates that we're serving Beef Wellington with mashed potatoes and roasted vegetables. While there is puff pastry and duxelles, it's been wrapped around firm tofu, not beef. (That's the fraud.)

Out come the plate-covered baking trays, and we move down the tables with pots of mash and pans of vegetables, following with slices of Tofu Wellington and saucing with mushroom gravy. The trays go into the cart, and we're back to the long, twisty corridor.

Back in the kitchen, we're experiencing technical difficulties: the electrical circuits are not playing nice with the fryolator. In fact, it might be more accurate to say they hate the fryolator almost as much as I hate the cabinet trolley. They're blowing every ten minutes. Heresy is supposed to be a mini beef slider with French fries; JJ makes the decision to eighty-six the fries.

The burgers are fine, however, and we wipe down the folding tables and lay out sheets of greaseproof paper. We set out buns, and JJ gives quick tutorial on how to wrap a burger for those of us who never worked in fast food. The patties come out of the oven, and we start wrapping as quickly as we can.

The burgers are served in paper bags with a pamplet from "Beelzebub's Burgers"; they leave the kitchen on two big trays, sparing us the task of dragging the trolley back down the corridor again.

The final course is Heaven: a dessert of creme anglaise topped with a meringue, garnished with basil-blueberry sauce. We set out wide-mouthed glasses, floating meringues atop creme anglaise and adding dollops of sauce. Once dessert leaves the kitchen, JJ ducks out to catch the Heaven performance, and the rest of us take a break.

By which we mean "nibble on the leftovers." After all, there are some perks to serving in Hell.

There are plenty of extra vol-au-vents, and I snag a spoonful of creamy lobster salad to eat with the flaky, buttery pastry. There are also extra turnip flans, which sound odd, but have a light, custardy texture, and a sweet, delicate flavor.

Peering into the steam cabinet, we find a bowl of beans and ribs, and extra slices of Tofu Wellington, gravy, and sides. The beans and slow-brined ribs are fantastic, but it's the Tofu Wellington that surprises me. Disturbed as I am by the concept, it's actually quite delicious. The tofu texture works well with the flakiness of the pastry, and the duxelles and the gravy are flavorful enough to make up for its blandness.

When snacktime is over, cleanup begins. As Jennifer, Trevor and Bee ponder ingredients and logistics for the next evening's show, I make my way to the much-despised cabinet trolley. I have yet another stack of baking trays to clean before my night is over.