I’m Laurel HERMAN, and I’m a rebel spirit.
Always have been.
After decades in the food business, I came to realize that my gift was in being able to think outside the box.
Going off road was what my clients and students loved the most.
“Who wants to go off road?“ Everyone’s hands go up.
Because recipes are just guidelines, and expressing yourself as you, is freedom.
I’ve always said, the main ingredient is you.
I started out in Hell’s kitchen in NYC, the only woman in a brigade of 30 men, not knowing how to hold a knife, yet in charge of a pantry that served 600 for lunch on a busy theater matinee day.
That was over 40 years ago, and I never looked back.
I had a hunger for the deep connection of food and the human spirit and how our ancestral roots defined our love of food.
It's always been more than food.
I stand in solidarity in the fight against racism,
and the historic oppression of the Black Community.
I pledge through active open communication,
and inclusivity in my business and personal life.
It's cultural, spiritual.
It permeates every part of our lives, bringing people and ideas together.
It’s medicine, nourishment on so many levels.
Follow my small sips of insights and thoughts over on Anchor
, recorded as and when inspiration strikes.
Copyright @ Laurel Herman
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No matter where life took me, I always found myself back in the kitchen.
Learning, observing, cooking, creating, and laughing.
A natural progression in a lifelong career of food, it’s time to offer my knowledge, expertise, and passion with you as we become co-creators with a vision for your business, practice or personal goals.
With kind permission from poet Ellen Bass
I like cutting the cucumber, the knife slicing the darkness
into almost-transparent moons, each
with its own thin rim of night. I like smashing
the garlic with the flat of steel
and peeling the sticky, papery skin from the clove.
Tell me what to do. I’m free of will.
I carve the lamb into one-inch cubes.
I don’t use a ruler, but I’d be happy to.
Give me a tomato bright as a parrot.
Give me peaches like burning clouds.
I’ll pare those globes until dawn. The syrup
will linger on my fingers like your scent.
Let me escape my own insistence.
I am the bee feeding the queen.
Show me how you want
the tart glazed. I still have opinions,
but I don’t believe in them.
Let me fillet the supple bones from the fish.
Let me pit the cherries. Husk the corn.
You say how much cinnamon
to spice the stew. I’ve made bad decisions,
so I’m grateful for this yoke
lowered onto my shoulders, potatoes
mounded before me.
With all that’s destroyed, look
how the world still yields a golden pear.
Freckled and floral, a shimmering marvel.
It rests in my palm so heavily, perfectly.
Somewhere there is hunger. Somewhere, fear.
But here the chopping block is solid. My blade sharp.