New Cook Tip #1: A place for everything and everything mise en place

This is my kitchen.

This is my kitchen on cooking.

It turns out that what's good for my personal growth isn't quite so good for my kitchen's self-esteem. For years it kicked back in a quiet corner of the house, sunning its chipped Formica counters in front of the window and contentedly letting its decades-old appliances snooze the years away.

Now I shake it awake in the mornings. I put it to work at dinnertime. And each time, I leave the poor thing absolutely wrecked.

My kitchen is scarred with dried sauce spots and chunks of hardened batter. Flour dusts the floor like flakes of dandruff and olive oil spills give the countertop a greasy-skinned sheen. Pans pile up like scrap metal at a junkyard and, somehow, there's a wad of wilted spinach stuck to the stark white ceiling that everyone notices, but are all too embarrassed to mention.

My disorganization has been a disservice to my kitchen.

Enter: Mise en place (pronounced MEEZ ohn plahs). The phrase translates literally to "put in place," but means "to organize and prepare." (Essentially, get your stuff together. Have your ingredients, your pans, your plan at the ready. It also means to clean as you go so your work area doesn't acquire that post-Apocalyptic appearance.)

It came up repeatedly in the first episode of this season's Worst Cooks in America (the only cooking-related show that simultaneously informs AND helps me feel better about me). And it came up for good reason.

New cooks like me often fail to prepare. We don't chop the onions until the recipe says, "add chopped onions," and then we curse ourselves when the rest of the dish burns into non-existence while we frantically search for a knife. And the onions.

So I've been more diligent about preparation lately. I've chopped things up, measured ingredients out, and walked myself through the entire recipe before I let anything start smoking on the stove. And I bought some cool little bowls from LeRoux Kitchen that give my kitchen that "I can prepare a meal in a 2.5-minute time slot on the Today Show" feel.

Having everything measured out and ready to go truly takes some of the pressure off when you're in the heat of a recipe. And I recently heard it said that the state of a cook's work area is a good indicator of the state of the cook's noggin: Chaos on the counter implies chaos in the brain. And it's harder to squeeze good food out of chaos.

Plus, kitchens appreciate not being destroyed every time you want to make spaghetti. In return for the courtesy, maybe the stove will stop burning your sauce.

If you can't cook, cocktail! Two martini recipes and the Signature Event

Cooking isn't easy. But after a sustained skirmish in the kitchen, there's nothing like a kind and understanding cocktail to help set your mind right again.

We'll all get a taste of some fine drinks next Wednesday during the Signature Event - a dessert and cocktail competition highlighting Maine's "finest cocktails and confectionery creations." But it is a competition, after all. Bartenders will go drink to drink. Bakers will get in each others' glazes. Gloves will come off. Flour will fly. Rum will run wild. And attendees will get to sample it all and have their say in the People's Choice category.

Keeping things professional, Portland's own master of drink John Myers will be judging, alongside Boston's John Gertsen of Drink.

They're even letting me have a say. (The event organizers must've notice my recycle bin is always a bit bottle heavy.)

In an effort to exercise my cocktail-judging muscles, I met with Doug Calderbank, bartender at Eve's at the Garden at Portland Harbor Hotel and a contestant in the upcoming competition. Doug showed me how to make a Tiramisu Martini and a Painkiller Martini - two cocktails that are sure to impress guests without sending the drink maker into the dreaded downward spiral of spirits.

What's Doug making for the Signature Event? He's not telling. But He did mutter "basil, strawberries and mint." Anyway, on to the martinis:

Tiramisu Martini
2 oz. Amaretto
1 oz. Kahlua
1 oz. Bailey's
1 oz. espresso
A touch of cream
Combine in a glass full of ice. Shake vigorously and strain into a cold glass. Sprinkle with chocolate and serve.

Painkiller Martini
1 oz. Jamaican Rum
1 oz. Captain Morgan's spiced rum
1 oz. cream of coconut
1 oz. orange juice
3 oz. pineapple juice
Combine in a glass full of ice. Shake vigorously and strain into a cold glass. Sprinkle with nutmeg and serve.

The Signature Event
5:30 to 8:30 p.m. Wednesday, Feb. 29 at Portland Harbor Hotel. Tickets are $35 in advance and $40 at the door (if there are any left) and can be purchased online at www.brownpapertickets.com/event/221413

Competitors in the Signature Event Dessert Competition:
Bevin McNulty of Bam Bam Bakery, Portland; David Turin of David's Restaurant, Portland; Dean Bingham of Dean's Sweets, Portand; Michael Rivera of The Farmer's Table, Portland; James Tranchemontagne of Frog and Turtle, Westbrook; Gabrielle Girard of Sonny's, Portland; Tara Smith and Catherine Côté Eliot of Standard Baking, Portland; Stephanie O'Neil of Tulip's Cupcakery, Portland; Sarah Coonradt (2011 Dessert Champ) of Walter's, Portland; Ashley Fortin of Whole Foods Market, Portland

Competitors in the Signature Event Cocktail Competition:
David Boger of The Armory Lounge, Portland; Adrian Trudeau (Sig Event 2011 Champ) of Academe Brasserie, Kennebunk Inn, Kennebunk; Zeus-Hannah Suzette Azure Cafe, Freeport; Corner Room Kitchen and Bar, Portland; David's Restaurant, Portland; ; Great Lost Bear, Portland; Local 188, Portland; Natalie's, Camden; Eve's at the Garden, Portland; The Salt Exchange, Portland; Zapoteca, Portland

The competition also launches Maine Restaurant Week (March 1-10), statewide celebration of restaurants. FMI: www.mainerestaurantweek.com

That's not a banana: Impatient plantains and cinnamon-scented cement

If you have ever spent time in the tropics and/or bitten into a fat, hard-to-peel banana that tasted just awful, then you're already familiar with the plantain. They're like the banana's often-misunderstood older cousin, getting judged for their tough exterior and for trying to pass as the softer, good-when-raw ray of sunshine known as the cavendish banana.

But plantains ain't no wannabes. They're fine in their own right (the ones at Sonny's, Portland, in particular). So I looked up an easy fried plantain recipe, complete with a step-by-step video and picked up a few green plantains from the grocery store.

I'd read that, unlike bananas that turn brown as they expire, plantains turn black as they ripen. So I set them on the counter and waited. And waited. And waited. They stayed green for weeks. They resisted the dark side. So finally, when I could wait no more for them to completely black out, I cut into one.

The darn thing was hardened all the way through as though suffering from a fruit form of rigor mortis. I'd let the plantains go too long. So I shed a few tears, then went back to the store for a few more plantains. This time I didn't wait.

Plantains peel pretty easily, once a knife has lopped off the ends and put a nice slice down the length.

They also fry up fast - just a few minutes on each side.

The recipe above suggested a two-fry method, where the plantains are cooled before being squished and fried again.

When it comes to squishing, almost any near-at-hand tool will do. I used a pint glass.

And then refried.

The dipping sauce is even easier:
1/4 C sour cream
1/8 tsp chipotle pepper
1 tbsp lime juice
1 tbsp lemon juice

Cinnamon-scented cement

Feeling so plantain inspired, I tried another recipe for a plantains in temptation sauce that I'd seen on Pinterest a few weeks back.

The ingredients:
3/4 C sugar
3/4 C water
3/4 C sherry or balsamic vinegar
2 tsp grated lime rind
1 tsp ground cinnamon
1/4 tsp ground cloves
1 T butter

The sugar melted just like it was supposed to. The scent of cinnamon and lime proliferated my house.

The sauce simmered on the stove top, and when I sampled it, I knew I'd tasted plantain sauce greatness.

I stirred occasionally as it reduced and the kitchen timer ticked down from 25 (because the recipe said, "Cook 25 minutes or until mixture is reduced to 1 cup.") But at minute 19 I could smell something...not right. Almost burning. I whisked the pan from the heat, but it was too late. I'd let it go too long. The sauce had turned to sludge and the sludge was hardening as it cooled.

I was left with plantains coated in cinnamon-scented cement.

On the upside, my kitchen still smells good.

Burn Gallery: Plantain sauce or cinnamon-scented cement?

This plantain sauce started so well. It's taste? Akin to heaven! Until it started burning, foaming, and smoking like the fiery pits of hell.

Grocery shopping: Source of bliss or burden akin to tooth extraction?

It's been a long time since I cried in a grocery store - probably since the Parent vs. Child Skittles Fallout of 1982. Or maybe it was the time I fell and split my knee open outside the 7-11 and my older brother told me "it'll be fine. Just spit on it." So I did, then I went inside for some Big League Chew and had to stifle tears in the candy aisle.

But otherwise, the grocery store doesn't tend to elicit much emotion. Though I suppose I'm not usually inside long enough for it to toy with my mental state. Read: I'm too fast.

I get in, I get the wine, I get the couscous, and I get the hell out of there. But some people adore the store. They peruse, they wander, they meditate on the munster. According to a 2009 survey of grocery store shoppers in the U.S., a solid 53 percent of them like or love it. Three percent would rather have a limb removed. At least that's my interpretation of the data. (How do you feel about grocery shopping? Take the poll below.)

[More on the survey by The Nielsen Company]

I'd like to like the grocery store, but I wanted to take it slow at first, really get to know each other. If things went well, we'd have a talk, discuss our feelings, and then mutually agree to take it to a more serious, committed level.

But then the Mill Creek Hannaford started changing.

One day the cereal aisle became the beer aisle, which was moved near cosmetics, which are now down aisle 16 instead of 14, near the organic soups, which used to be in aisle one, where the tortillas, rice, and salsa currently reside. Tomorrow they'll be moved again.

On the downside, searching for unfamiliar products in a grocery store that changes its layout with the same frequency as the grand staircase at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry can be frustrating. It can raise a shopper's blood pressure, increase stress levels, or incite tears.

On the upside, it's kinda like a scavenger hunt (I prefer to compete against the clock or sometimes against fellow shoppers who become my unwitting nemeses for the duration of the shopping experience). And I'm discovering things I never noticed in the store before (tomatillo? Muy adorable!).

So I'm endeavoring to show the aisles a little more appreciation.

What's the French word for "alien brains"? Roasted Brussels sprouts

I remember the Brussels sprouts of my youth.

I remember they looked like little green alien brains, probably squeezed from the oblong heads of a hundred pint-sized extraterrestrials like so many soybeans from an edamame pod.

As a kid, I was clearly into flights of food-related fancy. What I wasn't into: alien brains. So on my plate there were peas and green beans and cauliflower, and not a whole lot of experimentation.

Of course time has a way of changing our mind about things. Our mothers like to call it "maturing."

Whatever the impetus, Brussels sprouts are no longer on my Fling From Plate list or my List of Things to Obliterate Once I Acquire a Laser Powerful Enough to Obliterate Things. (Sleep with one eye open, sauerkraut. You're still on it.) In fact, I order them on purpose.

This weekend I ordered them at Portland's Petit Jacqueline, a French bistro serving things like choucroute garnie and fluke meunière. I don't speak a speck of French, aside from the single phrase I picked up from those Merde. Il pleut umbrellas, but I'll remember what choux de bruxelles means from here on out: Brussels sprouts. Just don't ask me to pronounce it. (I studied Spanish in school, see. It was a fortuitous decision that today allows me to inform my Spanish-speaking friends that "Me gusto bailar" before inquiring after the location of the bathroom.)

I enjoyed the Palm beer. I loved the gnocchi. But the Brussels sprouts, they were inspirational. Within 36 hours I was at the grocery store digging my hands into the Brussels sprouts bin with the same crazed abandon usually reserved for a burglar's late-night heists at the jewelry counter.

I also found a simple four-ingredient roasted Brussels sprouts recipe that even the most stove shy among us could manage.

Olive oil, salt, pepper mixed together, Brussels sprouts coated, onto a pan and into the big square cooker for 35 minutes at 400 degrees.

Facile!

Everybody wants their own bacon: Pasta with asparagus, pine nuts and something called pancetta

Sure, we all knew about Canada. They made no secret of their special brand of bacon - a cut of pork taken from the back instead of the sides or belly, like the kind embraced by Americans. Our streaky bacon took no offense to the Canadian rival - who can stay angry at such good-natured neighbors? Especially when their bacon isn't as good?

Then I found out about Italy.

Perhaps I've been distracted by thoughts of red sauces and pasta-making machines that clamp to the counter top and churn out miles of noodles that I could drape over everything - the kitchen chairs, the towel rack, the shrubs. (The thought has also occurred to me that, in lieu of owning a pasta maker, the paper shredder at the office might make an ingenious stand-in.)

But Italy has it's own bacon adaptation. It's called pancetta.

I encountered the stuff when researching easy recipe ideas on myrecipes.com. The recipe: pasta with asparagus, pancetta and pine nuts.

I dig pasta because it's forgiving, like a grandparent who still thinks you're a gem of a kid even though you steal all the quarters from his change jar every time you visit. Pasta doesn't usually give you a hard time. And asparagus? I'm familiar with the stuff. As for the pine nuts, I happen to already have some in the cabinet. The recipe sounded within my grasp...even, dare I say it, easy. It was like a sign from the gods of stove-top cooking.

Until pancetta.

Is that a cheese? A meat? The word used to describe cooked human liver?

So I asked a coworker. And I Googled it. And I inquired with the dude at the grocery store deli counter. And then I got me some pancetta.

Pancetta: Italian bacon. It's pork belly meat that is salt cured. And unlike the other version we love so well, it's not smoked and is generally sold rolled up.

When I prepared it for the pasta recipe, it crisped up in a handful of minutes ("Arrange pancetta on jelly-roll pan. Bake at 475° for 6 minutes" I was instructed). It was also, I thought, a heck of a lot more flavorful than the bacon I'm used to - including the locally raised pound of bacon I was gifted last year from a friend. (Bacon: an always-welcome gift.)

And I was right, the dish was easy. Even better, it was edible. Not just edible, it was good. Of course, I never did figure out what jelly-roll pan is. I trust it's just another name for "whatever tired baking dish you already own," kind of like how "meat tenderizer" is just another name for "hammer."

Now, if any other countries have some bacon they'd like to tell me about...

Burn gallery: A nearly cremated ham and cheese croissant

It came from Standard Baking Company in Portland. I simply wanted to warm it up, but oh so tragically, I was distracted by...something. I can't recall what.

Needless to say, I ate the croissant anyway. And it was still awesome.