Beets, Rhymes, & Life: December 2013

(Disclaimer: The plating pictured was done 16 hours after food was originally prepared for audition)

A few weeks back, I decided to try my hand at MasterChef again. Instead of lugging my kitchen to the Big Apple, I headed to Philly, the closest urban metropolis to the tiny farm town where I grew up. While Logan Township is where I climbed trees and perfected the art of surfing on my blue and chrome Huffy, Philly is where I chased girls with the homies on South Street, graduated from the school of hard knocks, and became Temple Made. In NYC, I was a MasterChef virgin but in Philly I knew what to expect and was hoping a little hometown luck would turn out to be handy. Last time, I spent months perfecting my stuffed pork roulade. This time, I cooked the dish once before the audition. To showcase my raw yet refined skillset, my final menu was an herbed (tarragon and cardamom) pan-seared moulard duck breast with an orange ginger curry (with a touch of Grand Marnier) sauce, parsnip purée, and brussel sprouts. I'm not going to lie, I was feeling myself a bit. The plating was something you would see in fine dining establishment and the myriad of flavors merged like a 17-piece orchestra at the Kimmel Center.

During the first round of tasting, I went through the same ordeal as the previous year. Just like last year, the other contestants said my plating was stellar. The professional taster came by my station and looked at the meal fit for a king and queen. He took his fork, picked at the dish and said, "The duck is perfect!" Then, he tasted each component of the dish and appeared to be pleased. The easy part was finished but my weakness was about to be exposed. The personality judges came over and began to quiz me on my interests outside of food. I consider myself a sentient being who is “on a losing strike, I'm on a winning streak, I'm out in left field, I'm speaking mentally, But that's a better place than where the benches be, I'm feelin' really good, me and different beat, me and my different drummer, he play the timpanis.” I am equal parts of my prior experience. Although I rock business attire, my soul bleeds the struggle of blue collar folk. I am a small town kid who used to lose track of time jumping out of trees in Swedesboro and hoopin’ in the Chester Biddy League then later on in the cadaver lab at Temple. Now, I unwind trekking through nature or in the kitchen. I’ve had to hold my own in the projects of North Philly and elite establishments alike. I’ve lost a cousin to senseless violence while watching my younger brother overcome tough battles. Because of these instances and many others, not much (good or bad) really phases me in the moment. After it's all over and I have time to reflect is when I get ecstatic about things. But running around jumping on tables won’t get you through those times, so I’m “on my black man in the future shit, call me Billy Dee.” Even though my cooking will heat up Alaska, "I’m cooler than a polar bear’s toenails." And in spite of my “flow hippy, comfortable bean bags, chill” persona, I was able to coast through the preliminary round again.

In the final round before on-camera interviews, they wanted me to turn up like Philly’s Kevin Hart. Turn up for intellectual stimulation, turn up to advance my profession, turn up for globetrottin’, turn up to give back to the world in which I live, or turn up for mindful meditation. I'll even turn up to talk about my love of food but I can’t tap dance for TV. So while my food may be perfect, my personality is not constructed for reality television and I’m okay with that. During the experience, I met some cool folks and already know who I am rooting for when season five of MasterChef drops.

Meanwhile don’t be surprised if I join forces with some extroverted marketing genius for balance and bring my food to the masses through a pop-up series or monthly supper club. Really, don’t be surprised because it’s coming. Until then, I remember that “life’s battles don't always go to the stronger or faster man. But, sooner or later, the man who wins, is the man who thinks he can!”