The problem? I have a history with green onions. Specifically, a history of turning them into fridge slime before I get any real use out of them.

So here’s what happened this time.

I get home from Costco. These things sat on the counter for six hours while I put groceries away, butchered a pork loin, cooked supper, and played Tetris with the fridge. No room. Green onions lose.

I managed to use some in a “vegan” kimchi Jjigae ramen. Chopped enough for a small container. That’s 2 out of 24.

The rest? Spent the night on the counter. In the bag. Same bag they came home in. Same bag Costco had refrigerated before I bought them.

Ever wonder—So what the hell do I do with these before they go sideways?

I got called out on Threads for arguing instead of building.

They had a point.

I’ve been:

• arguing with people trying to prove they’re wrong
• breaking down their logic in my head
• thinking of ways to “show them”

…and then leaving it there.

Nothing captured. Nothing built.

I’ve been doing the hard part—thinking.

And skipping the part that compounds.

Giving it all away to Threads.

It’s draining. And it goes nowhere.

This isn’t new for me.

I’ve seen what happens when you focus on the system instead of reacting:

• Ran a 250-seat terrace with two kitchens
• Same menu, same execution, high volume
• Staff included high school kids

Everyone said it wouldn’t work.

It did. Because we built a system that could handle pressure.

I learned this early. Way back in culinary school.

Chef Bishop never answered questions directly.
It was always:

“What do YOU think—and why?”

If you got it, he’d point to his head:

“Now you understand.”

Annoying as hell at the time.

But that’s the difference between following steps… and actually knowing what you’re doing.

So here’s the shift:

Every argument becomes something that lives on my site.

Not just “who’s right”
…but what system is behind it

Papa Sandemano’s isn’t just recipes.

It’s a kitchen where I break down:

• why things work
• where they fail
• how to actually understand them

Not just follow steps.

If you’ve ever followed instructions and still messed it up—
it’s not you.

You just weren’t shown the system.

Stick around.

GET TO THE POINT PAPA—JUST GIVE ME THE IDEA:

Tools don’t replace experience—they show it.

You can know the recipe and still ruin the dish.

That gap? That’s experience.

That’s apprenticeship.

Chef’s office—after shift (uh oh)

My heart is pounding when I open the door and walk into the office. My sous chef is sitting behind his desk.

He points to the chair, and says, “Sit.”

He doesn’t raise his voice right away.

“Tell me why you put whole peppercorns in the marinade.”

Just looks at me.

I’m explaining. Confident. Logical. Already halfway through justifying it.

I strained the peppercorns. No big deal. Chicken tastes better this way.

I think I’m being smart.

He cuts me off.

“Shut the fuck up.”

And just like that, I realize I’m not being smart.

Because I’m thinking about the one time I do it right.

I’m not thinking about the system.

The one time someone forgets to strain the peppercorns.
The one guest who bites down on that peppercorn.
The one mistake that doesn’t get a second chance.

I knew what to do.

I just didn’t understand why it had to be done that way.

I’m being dangerous.

And that’s the difference.

Knowing how something works isn’t the same as knowing how to use it.

I could execute—but I didn’t understand the system, so I got it wrong.

That’s knowledge you earn through experience.

That’s apprenticeship.

That’s why I’m not apprehensive about AI.

I’m proof that knowing how something is done doesn’t mean you know how to do it properly.

That part is earned.

AI doesn’t replace skill.

It reveals it.

You can have the recipe and still ruin the dish. Or someone’s teeth. Or your own.

You can skip the apprenticeship, but your tools won’t hide it.

Didn’t have chili powder.
Didn’t have cayenne.
Didn’t feel like buying cayenne.

But I did have a couple jars of dried jalapeños from last summer.

(See: Grew These)

So instead of grabbing a store blend, I built my usual chili powder…
and swapped the cayenne for my own ground jalapeños.

Now… the problem.

My wife has a very different definition of “medium.”

Costco salsa? Too spicy.
She powers through it… but I hear about it.

History suggests this swap was a risky decision.

Anyway, here’s what I did:

Used about 1 1/2 peppers:

• some with seeds
• some without

First I tried using a mortar and pestle to grind them…

Then I got fed up and finished it in a busted coffee grinder.

Mixed, it looked rougher than my usual chili powder…

Flavoured with the jalapeños I grew, dried, and ground myself.

Which felt like a great idea at the time.

Result:

Medium heat.
Nice warmth, not overpowering.
Well, at least not for me.

But the Food Critics’ verdict?

This is what I’m trying to figure out:

• How much do the seeds actually matter?
• How does grind size affect it?
• How does this compare to store-bought chili powder?

The goal here isn’t just to make chili powder.

It’s to understand what the peppers I grow actually do in a dish.

This is the start.

Next test:

• Remove jalapeños from the spice mix and cook them whole with the beans.
• All seeds vs no seeds.
• Toasted vs not toasted.
• Maybe bring in some chipotle powder to round it out.

I spent the last 3 days arguing with randos on the internet.

You know the kind.
The “this is theft,” “this isn’t real,” “back in my day we…” crowd.

And what did I get out of it?

Absolutely nothing.

Meanwhile, this is what I could have been doing.

This?

This is me learning crochet with my daughter.

And yeah—it looks like hot garbage.

Tension is all over the place.
The yarn is fighting me.
The hook slips mid-loop like it’s trying to escape the conversation entirely.

But here’s the thing:

I’m actually getting better.

Not because I read a perfect guide.
Not because someone argued me into it.

But because I watched people do it…
picked up on the rhythm…
and started failing forward.

Sound familiar?

It should.

Because it’s the same thing with AI.

You can argue about it all day…
or you can use it, fumble through it, and actually get better.

One produces noise.

The other produces… whatever the hell this is.

And I’ll take this.

Every time.

OKAY, THE POINT IS:

TL:DR;

Stop arguing online and go make something.

When you’re knee-deep in chaos, the sauce is breaking, and the guests are starting to riot, stop and ask yourself:

What would JD (or JY) do?

Here’s the answer:

• Keep your cool.
• Think before you react.
• Simplify the process.
• Execute with excellence.
• Leave no stone unturned. Double-check everything.
• Involve your team.

These aren’t just empty platitudes. These are the lessons I learned from two legends of the kitchen: JD, the master of calm command, and JY, the swearing sage of precision. Their combined wisdom shaped not only how I cook but how I approach life.

Let me tell you how I learned these lessons—one chaotic brunch and one meticulous mentor at a time.

The 800 PAX Eggs Benedict Fiasco

Let Papa paint you a picture: it was a breakfast function for 800 guests (we call that 800 PAX in kitchen speak), and on the buffet was the bane of brunch cooks everywhere: Eggs Benedict. A toasted English muffin, Canadian bacon, a poached egg, and Hollandaise sauce—a recipe for disaster when scaled up for a high-end banquet.

For reasons Papa still can’t explain, the Chef de Parties, in their infinite wisdom, decided we’d make these to order. To order. For 800 people. (Yeah, in a tilt skillet. I laughed too. Then I cried.)

We ran out of Eggs Benedict a quarter of the way into service. Eight buffet stations sat empty. Guests were fuming, the kitchen was in chaos, and the Chef de Parties were yelling at each other instead of fixing the problem.

That’s when JD walked in. Calm, cool, collected—like he wasn’t walking into a culinary war zone. He took one look at the disaster and said, in a voice so calm it was terrifying:

“We have 800 guests out there, 8 stations completely empty of Eggs Benedict, our package they paid a premium for, and none to be found anywhere. I don’t care how you do it, but I want to see those stations filled right now.”

Then he looked at the Chef de Parties, me, and another first cook, and said:

“See you in the office after service is done.”

Let me tell you, nothing makes you move faster than JD’s version of calm disappointment. We got those stations up and running. I invented a Bain Marie system on the fly using deep inserts with poaching water and perforated inserts to bulk-poach eggs to order. It wasn’t elegant, but it worked.

The lesson? Keep your cool, simplify the bullshit, and get the job done.

JY: The Sage of Slowly, But Surely

Fast-forward a few years, and I’m working under a master of Quebecois Chaos-JY. If JD was the calm eye of the storm, JY is the meticulous master of “slowly, but surely.”

He’s the kind of guy who’ll let you know when you’ve screwed up, but never loses his cool. Instead, he’ll look you in the eye and say, “I’m not impressed.” (Which, frankly, is worse than being yelled at. That one line cuts deep.)

But JY doesn’t just critique—he teaches. He’s a firm believer in:

• Check. Double-check. Have it checked. Then verify.
• Simplify your process.
• Always involve your team.

He’s also not afraid to swear like a Quebecois sailor while doing it, which somehow makes it all the more endearing.

The Gospel of JD and JY

So what would JD or JY do when the kitchen is falling apart? They’d:

• Stay calm. No yelling, no panicking—just clear, calm direction.
• Simplify the task. Whether it’s rigging a Bain Marie for Eggs Benedict or ditching perfectionist veal reductions for BBQ sauce, focus on what works.
• Set a high standard. Simplifying doesn’t mean sacrificing quality.
• Double-check everything. Never assume something’s fine—verify it. Leave no stone unturned.
• Involve the team. Trust your people, listen to their ideas, and collaborate.

These lessons didn’t just save me in the kitchen—they’ve shaped how I approach every challenge in life. And now they’re yours.

The next time you’re in the weeds, ask yourself: What would JD or JY do? Then follow their lead, and watch the chaos turn to calm.

The Story: So Chef Says to Me…

Fifteen years ago, I wasn’t “Papa” yet. I was just a sous chef—young, eager, and utterly convinced that more was always better:

• More ingredients.
• More sauce.
• More flair.

And then there was Chef.

We called him Maurice, but he’ll always just be Chef to me. You could be knee-deep in the weeds—thirty tickets in, the line on fire—and Chef would waltz in, put down his cocktail, tie on his black apron over a perfectly pressed chef jacket, and calmly get to work. Within minutes, chaos became calm. It was maddening to work with him, but the man was a master, and you couldn’t help but learn.

One night, Chef turned to me and said, “Make me a stir-fry.”

It seemed simple enough. Stir-fry is easy, right? Just throw a bunch of stuff into a pan, douse it in sauce, and voilà! So that’s exactly what I did. I grabbed every vegetable I could find:

• carrots
• celery
• onions
• mushrooms
• bell peppers
• bean sprouts
• choi tips.

Then came the sauces:

• soy
• teriyaki
• oyster
• sambal
• sesame oil
• hell, I might’ve added plum sauce just for kicks.

It was a kaleidoscope of flavors and colors, a masterpiece (or so I thought).

I plated it up and handed it to Chef. He took the dish with his signature aloofness, gingerly used his fork to lift a small amount to his mouth, and tasted it.

He sighed.

Then, without a word, he handed the dish back to me.

That maddening smile spread across his face as he stood there. I was dumbfounded.

“What the fuck, Chef?” I asked.

He grinned and, with that signature look—half smirk, half mystery—said, “It tasted very…Canadian. Good job. It’s like what you’d cook at a Chinese buffet in the Prairies.”

Ouch.

“Too much going on,” he continued. “Onions, garlic, soy, sambal, teriyaki, six kinds of vegetables—why? You’re stacking flavors like it’s a lasagna. Keep it simple. Respect the ingredients. They taste good—why are you trying to hide them?”

That moment was a gut punch—but also a revelation.

Chef taught Papa something he’ll never forget: simplicity isn’t boring—it’s bold. Sometimes, the simplest solutions are the best. Take that VH Sweet-and-Sour Sauce, for example. There’s no shame in using it. Chef would say, “It’s not like all Asians make their own soy sauce.” Sure, you can make your own sauce if you’ve got time, but why get cute about it when the jarred stuff gets the job done?

Years later, that lesson came full circle with today’s recipe. It’s the anti-buffet stir-fry: crisp tri-colored peppers, red onion, just enough sweet-and-sour sauce to moisten, and a handful of chili-lime peanuts for a kick. That’s it. Simple, clean, and damn good.

The Recipe

Fine! Here’s the recipe! Sometimes Papa gets distracted. Thanks for sticking with Papa.

Peppers with Sweet-and-Sour Sauce and Chili Peanuts

Total Time: ~10 minutes | Serves: 2-4

Ingredients

• 1 fl oz vegetable oil
• 1 small red onion, medium dice (1 cm)
• 1 small red pepper, medium dice (1 cm)
• 1 small yellow pepper, medium dice (1 cm)
• 1 small green pepper, medium dice (1 cm)
• 1/2 fl oz Shaoxing wine (or eyeball it—you’re not auditioning for Top Chef)
• 2 fl oz VH Sweet-and-Sour Sauce
• A handful of lime-and-chili-flavored peanuts

Method

1. Heat the Oil: Heat the vegetable oil over medium-high heat in a wok until shimmering.
2. Start with Onions: Add the diced red onion and cook for 1 minute, just until they soften.
3. Add the Peppers: Toss in the diced peppers. Stir-fry for another 1 minute, keeping them crisp.
4. Deglaze with Shaoxing Wine: Sprinkle the Shaoxing wine over the vegetables and let it cook off. This step builds the flavor—don’t skip it!
5. Sauce It Up: Add the VH Sweet-and-Sour Sauce. Stir and bring it to a gentle simmer. Lower the heat and let it cook for another minute.
6. Add the Peanuts: Remove the wok from heat and toss in a handful of peanuts for crunch and a little zing.
7. Taste and Adjust: Taste the dish. Adjust with salt and pepper if needed (though it might already be perfect).

Papa’s Notes

• Quick and Crisp: The short cooking time keeps the veggies vibrant. If they’re mushy, you’ve gone too far.
• Peanuts are the MVP: I used kettle-cooked lime-and-chili peanuts (Compliments brand). If you can’t find them, use plain roasted peanuts with a squeeze of lime and a pinch of chili powder.

Papa Wanna Get Something Off Papa’s Chest

“Hey Papa–what’s the deal? You’re using VH sauce? I thought you were a chef?” – A smart-ass apprentice, probably

No Sauce Shame: VH Sweet-and-Sour Sauce is the real deal when you’re short on time or just need something simple. Chef Maurice once told me, “It’s not like all Asians make their own soy sauce.” Convenience doesn’t equal compromise—it’s about using the right tool for the job.

Make It Your Own Later: If you want to make your own sauce, we can tackle that another day. But for now? Crack open that jar and let it do the heavy lifting.

Don’t have Shaoxing wine and can’ use it as an excuse for an Asian-Market excursion? Don’t sweat it, sherry (or even white wine) will do here-the alcohol is what promotes the flavour.

Optional Add-Ons

Papa knows it can be tempting to add more to this, so that it can shine better, right? Keep it simple, and don’t complicate the flavors. The only thing Papa might do to bring a little extra flair would be to garnish with thinly sliced Asian-Style scallions.

Have you tried this recipe? Share your thoughts or variations in the comments below! And don’t forget to subscribe for more Papa Sandemano recipes and lessons.

The Claims

This article—and a lot of chatter online—says plastic cutting boards might be shedding microplastics into our food. The idea is that every time you slice, dice, and julienne your way to glory, you’re scoring the surface of the board. Over time, those scratches turn into tiny plastic particles that could make their way into your food. Add to that the concern about bacteria hiding in those grooves, and suddenly your cutting board feels like a weapon of culinary destruction.

Papa’s Take on the Science

Let’s be real: plastic does wear down over time. And yeah, there’s some truth to the idea that microplastics are everywhere these days—in our water, our air, and even our bodies. But here’s the thing: not all cutting boards are created equal, and the level of risk depends on how you use and care for your tools.

• Cheap Plastic Boards: If you’re using a flimsy, dollar-store cutting board, you might be carving out more than just your chicken. Cheap boards wear out faster and develop grooves where bacteria and plastic bits can hide.
• Quality Plastic Boards: Solid boards made of high-density polyethylene (HDPE) are durable, easier to clean, and less likely to flake off into your food.

So, What’s a Cook to Do?

Papa says, keep your cutting board game strong with these tips:

1. Rotate Your Roster: Like a wrestler who knows when to hang up the boots, don’t hold onto your plastic board forever. If it starts looking like ECW or AEW just had a hardcore match with it (deep grooves and stains), it’s time to replace it.
2. Keep It Clean: Use hot water and soap after each use. Feeling fancy? Throw in a vinegar rinse or a hydrogen peroxide scrub every now and then to keep bacteria at bay.
3. Go Hybrid: No rule says you have to stick to one type of cutting board. Use plastic for raw meats (easy to sanitize) and wood for veggies, bread, and everything else. Wood boards are naturally antibacterial and don’t shed microplastics. Win-win.
4. Upgrade When You Can: Serious about your kitchen game? Invest in a quality cutting board.
   • Glass? Forget it—those things will ruin your knives.
   • Bamboo? Great for light cutting.
   • End-grain wood? Chef’s kiss.

The Bottom Line

Yeah, microplastics are a thing, but your cutting board isn’t the boogeyman here. Treat it with respect, keep it clean, and replace it when it’s past its prime. At the end of the day, a sharp knife and a solid board are your tag-team champions in the kitchen.

Papa’s Secret Weapon

Pro tip: When buying a new cutting board, look for one with a juice groove. That little moat saves your counter from becoming a pool of raw chicken juice. You’re welcome.

A Tradition of Lentils and Luck

In the Sandemano family, New Year’s traditions combine practicality and superstition:

• No fowl on New Year’s Day—we don’t want our luck flying away.
• Yes to lentils—because they look like coins (and we could all use a little more prosperity, right?).

This year, Papa’s taking on the challenge of creating a vegetarian version of Marcella Hazan’s lentil soup for the Sous Chef (a.k.a. a picky eater who objects to eating animals). Will it work? Maybe. Mess it up? Probably. But that’s how we learn, folks. Papa Sandemano always steps into the kitchen like it’s their wrestling ring: ready to win—or at least put on a hell of a show.

Speaking of Marcella, let’s just say: love her, but measuring butter, onions, carrots, and celery by the tablespoon? It threw Papa, who spent an embarrassing amount of time Googling why anyone would do this. Papa’s theories:

1. She had someone chopping for her.
2. She prepped a giant batch of “soffrito” in advance.
3. She had to or the powers-that-be wouldn’t publish her books.

Oh, and “soffrito”? Don’t let that Italian word intimidate you—it’s their fancy word for onion, carrots, and celery. Like the French and their “mirepoix”. Same idea, different language.

The Recipe

Fine! Here’s the recipe! If you read this already—Thanks for reading this far! Papa promises the rambling is done… for now.

Ingredients

• Butter: ¼ cup (see below for Papa’s rant on butter measurement)
• Onion: Approx. ¼ small yellow onion, finely diced
• Carrot: Approx. 2 inches of a medium carrot, finely diced
• Celery: Approx. 3 inches of a celery stalk, finely diced
• Smoked Paprika: 1 teaspoon
• Tomatoes: 1 cup canned tomatoes with juice
• Lentils: ½ pound dried lentils
• Liquid: 1 liter tap water (or, if you’re feeling fancy, “mushroom broth”)
• Flavoring Agent: 3 teaspoons Better Than Bouillon (vegetable base)
• Vegemite: ¼ teaspoon (Papa’s secret weapon for umami depth)
• Salt and freshly ground black pepper
• Parmesan or nutritional yeast for serving

Instructions

1. Melt ½ of the butter (2 small pieces) in a pot over medium heat. Add the onion and sauté until golden.
2. Add the carrot and celery, stirring occasionally, and cook for 2-3 minutes to build the “soffrito” flavors. (Don’t let that Italian word intimidate you—it’s their fancy word for onion, carrots, and celery. Like the French and their ‘mirepoix.’)
3. Lower the heat and sprinkle the smoked paprika over the “soffrito”. Stir gently for about 30 seconds, just until the aroma develops.
4. Add the tomatoes and stir, scraping up any bits from the bottom of the pot like you’re deglazing. Let the mixture bubble gently for 25 minutes, stirring occasionally.
5. Stir in a dab of Vegemite (Papa’s secret weapon). Start with ¼ teaspoon—it’s bold, but it brings depth. A little goes a long way
6. Add the lentils, liquid, (and its flavoring agent. Bring to a steady simmer, cover, and cook until the lentils are tender (about 45 minutes). Add more liquid if needed.
7. Stir in the remaining butter (2 small pieces) just before serving to give the soup a luxurious finish.
8. Taste and adjust seasoning.
9. Serve with Parmesan (or nutritional yeast) or a drizzle of olive oil.

Papa Wanna Get Something Off Thier Chest: Stop Playing with Your Butter

Listen up! Papa’s got something to say, and it’s time you stopped playing with your butter. You know what grinds Papa’s gears? Recipes telling you to measure “3 tablespoons of butter.” Who has time for that? Who wants to dig out a sticky tablespoon just to appease a recipe?

• Not you
• Not Papa
• Not the dishwasher—They already giving you the side-eye thinking, “Whatcha gonna do with that?”

Here’s the deal: Let’s simplify it. Look at the butter package:

Now cut that into four pieces. Boom—four tablespoons. Use half (2 pieces) for cooking and save the rest for swirling in at the end. And if those pieces aren’t perfectly even? WHO CARES? Papa says, “Close enough is good enough!”

This isn’t rocket science; it’s butter. Butter doesn’t judge. Butter just makes things taste amazing. And guess what? With butter, there’s no losing—only flavor-packed wins.

Optional: For Meat Lovers

If you’re serving omnivores alongside vegetarians, crisp up some pancetta, prosciutto, or bacon in a separate pan. Let everyone top their bowl as they like—because soup should make everybody happy.