You Scrape The Bowl Like a Housewife
Nov 20th, 2009 by Marilyn
Josie was supposed to be scooping blondie batter out of a glass bowl and into a waiting pan. She handled my blue spatula like a lazy rake, pushing batter forward, up and out one glop at a time. I clasped hands and tried patience, but the spatula dripped and she moved on to licking her hand. “I hate to tell you this,” I said, “but you scrape the bowl like a housewife.”
“Oh come on, what does that even mean?” she said. “Doesn’t a housewife, like, know how to cook? So isn’t that good?”
You scrape the bowl like a housewife. In the culinary school bakery, that’s what you heard from Chef – my Chef, a mentor known for good brioche and painfully dirty French puns – what you heard if you worked slowly, or if you left batter lining the bowl, or if you moved like the cake was for next Christmas. And if that was you, pushing batter at an aimless pace (only me once, Miss Speedy after that) then it would be your back Chef would immediately appear behind. “YOU,” he would announce in loud Franglish, “you scrape the bowl like a HOWZE-WIFE.”
He aimed at both male and female and never explained, just moved to the next unfortunate scraper. But it was clearly an insult, this wifey business, calling you sluggish and semi-pro. You were not quick enough, not efficient enough, your arm might have been reaching for bonbons, you might drop baking altogether and go shopping, you scraped the bowl like a housewife.
I filed that phrase and would hear his words in every working kitchen, chopping fast, prepping hard and scraping every ounce of cookie dough from stainless 12-quart bowls. I would clean all the cake batter from the 20-quarts, and lose my hat peering into 60-quarts to hand-scrape the day’s baguette. Years later I too would have underlings, and if I caught a whiff of whatever or saw idle utensils, I got my chance: Look at you. The way you scrape that bowl, it’s like a housewife.
Most rankled at the scorn, worked faster and got better. Once, after watching a new girl swirl pumpkin bread batter like moisturizer, I said it and she yelled “God I HOPE I do.” This I did not see coming.
“Are you kidding?” She placed the filled bread pans on the oven rack, one by one, letting out all the heat. “Have babies and make brownies and not open a freaking shop at five in the morning? Yes, thanks. Scraping the bowl like a housewife sounds pretty good.”
I told her to shut the oven door and mix muffins.
A few businesses and a thousand bowls later I’m in my home kitchen, the kitchen we carefully planned, every knob and drawer and foot of useful space. The kitchen’s cook, she no longer opens at five; I left restaurants to get some peace but still, I move like the lunch rush. The difference now is that a door needs answering, the dog requires feeding, a daughter needs talking. Sometimes batter waits on the counter. Some days I put the bowl in the fridge and bake later, and at some point I began leaving batter in the bowl, just a few chocolate stripes up the side. I might call loudly to the other room, “I think there’s some batter left,” and Josie will run in and grab it, jump on the counter, swipe it like finger food.
Then I think about Chef, and how he’d unfurl wallet pictures of five kids, and how often he mentioned his wife. He told us stories of his family’s bakery in Provence, how he had learned baguettes from his uncles and croissants from his father. He told us about the cake his mother baked at home, an ugly chocolate affair with a sunken middle and crusty sides. She wrapped him a piece every morning, and when his uncles gave him a break from kneading, he sat on flour sacks in the back and ate cake with his hands.
I imagine they were proud to see him succeed, to work as a great chef and teacher, speeding through perfection and showing us the same. As his student I thought of him that way, wholly efficient, but now I consider his drive home, and remember that we were surprised to hear his wife was the dinner cook, roasting chicken and mashing potatoes, simple things he liked. I think of him pouring a glass of wine and hugging five small children, some at his leg, some in his arms, all hunting for the little cakes and treats I knew he toted home in white bags. And now I think at the end of the day he loved the housewife, and messy hours, and the sly disorder of long, lazy strokes.
That is a lovely post. Thanks for sharing. I most certainly scrape the bowl like a housewife, and also chop onions like a housewife. But when I think about how I chopped an onion 14 years ago when I first got married compared to how I chop an onion now, I give myself a little pat on the back!
I like Josie’s response to your comment. Wonderful writing again, Marilyn.
Oh, I just love that last paragraph!
This is a fabulous post. You started me off laughing and had me tearful at the end. Wonderful! And so true!
And he was probably translating “une bonne femme” which is sort of but not quite a housewife and certainly derogatory. I usually hear my French husband say it in reference to bad drivers : “Quelle Bonne Femme!” Funny!
*bliss* Your posts always remind me of the days I bake bread and have to go out; when I come home, the smell of bread is in the air like a gift.
That was such a pleasure to read, well-written and expressive. That last paragraph almost made me tear up.
I cannot stand it, not to scrape every last smear of batter out of a bowl. As always great post.
Fabulous story, and it’s also great to get more insight into your training and professional life.
What a pretty tribute. All too often, “housewife” is now associated with The Real Housewives of Orange County or (even worse) The Real Housewives of Atlanta and I like how you reclaim the word. This is going down as one of my favorite blog entries!
What a fun post! And I am guilty…I scrape the bowl like a housewife.
Now I’m inspired to get in the kitchen and enjoy mixing something with long, lazy strokes. I’ll get back to efficiency Monday morning. Thanks for helping me think about it.
A lovely story! And, come to think of it, performing certain kitchen tasks slowly is a good way to get out of them next time. Right, Josie?
I scrape the bowl like a housewife…who wants every last stinkin’ drop.
Love this.
Batter was meant to be left on bowls & beaters for friends, loved ones (even the dog) & ME! In our house, what comes out of the oven is secondary.
…and why aren’t you writing a book?
dahlila
I love this post! And this phrase, which I know will never forget. The funny thing is that I recently read a post on Dorie’s blog where she mentioned how Julia Child never tolerated leftover batter in the bowl and would always grab the bowl and spatula away from any guest on her show who lazily left it behind. She would say something like “you professionals might be able to afford to waste this batter, but we housewives know better.” I don’t know which way really is true (if any), but I know that I can never stand to leave batter in the bowl. And I always get a bit of antsy feeling when I see cooks on television toss the bowl away with at least (at least!) a 1/2 cup of batter still left all over the sides.
I so totally scrape zee bowl like a howze-wife. C’est la vie.
Awesome post. I ate up every word!
I’m a way amateur cook who learned much from the great women in the food department at Bon Appétit, so perhaps by now I scrape the bowl like a househusband? I love this post and this fantastic expression, which I will share with my daughter when she’s home from college and we’re baking on Wednesday. I can count on her to consider it the greatest of insults.
What a wonderful post. I’m afraid I merely cook at home and scrape the bowl like a housewife who needs more practice in the dessert department! God knows what a real Chef would think of it (I also love the uppercase C in Chef!)…
I’d like to think everyone should love their Housewives (uppercase H!), there’s so much more to it than baking!
I just got the chance to read this. It was so good. An insult to the chefs but what would a home be without a housewife? There is a place for everything and everything doesn’t have to be in its place.
And I also agree with the others about leaving things in bowls when you watch a cooking show. What’s up with that? I am always thinking why don’t you scrape that bowl out? You went to the trouble of chopping it up now toss it ALL in. hee hee
What a lovely story. Thank you for sharing it with us.
My first comment wouldn’t take because it was too short…uh? All I wanted to say was, Beautiful.
What a sweet post, and beautifully written. It was just the thing for me to read this morning. Efficiency and hard work are necessary, but we must leave time for loving and enjoying the people in our lives. After all, that’s where the best motivation for efficiency and hard work come from–so that we can provide for our families and have time for what is truly important.
Wonderful. I love the chef stories the most.
Ah, but the wisdom in this narrative is delicious, isn’t it? A delight to read. Visual and wonderful and smart. I will think of it every time I confront my own kitchen standards and wonder whose they really are.
i love this story, and i love the way you write. i have to thank susan champlin for introducing me to your lovely blog. and for the record, i do scrape the bowl like a housewife, just like my mum and my grandmummy did- and love it.
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I just found your blog and I am loving looking through the recipes! This post totally cracked me up and I should call my old chef at culinary school and give him this line! He would use it, his famous line around the school was when he would tell us “That looks great…if you are serving it to the blind”, ouch!
[...] friend Marilyn, at Simmer Till Done, told me a story from her culinary school days that has stuck with me for months. Her instructor used to say to [...]