I would like to state, for the record, that henceforth, under no circumstances, will I eat the yellow version of any candy. I know I recently wrote, rather smugly, about the short list of foods I won't eat. Please add "yellow candy" to the list including dogs and monkeys. This includes the yellow section of candy corns, yellow gummy bears and yellow starbursts. And all other yellow candy, excluding pineapple flavored Mambas.
Now that we've got that out of the way, let's talk about school. My suspicions that I am porktose intolerant have been confirmed beyond any shadow of a doubt. There is a hint of hope that I might be allergic to antibiotics that are fed to pigs prior to them becoming pork. This is unlikely but leaves me an out in the event that I decide I can't live without pork chops any time soon. I'll just buy free range, organic, grass-fed, kosher pork. Which kind of defeats the purpose of pork chops, which is that they are supposed to be cheap.
And while we're on the subject of free-range organic food, I'd like to make a request. If you insist upon eating only organic and all natural food, don't be a smug asshole about it. And! Do your research. USDA regulations and guidelines pertaining to all-natural and organic food are not as stringent as you may think. A chicken needs only 2 square feet of living space to be considered free range. I don't know how that chicken is any happier than a chicken with the standard amount of space, but then again, I refuse to abide the concept that poultry has emotions. ALSO! Don't be a smug asshole about eating this kind of food and then proceed to discuss your devotion to Domino's pizza. It makes you look like a smug asshole hypocrite.
So, believe it or not, I am halfway through Phase One of the culinary arts program. HALFWAY! Everyone said that it would go by quickly, but I had no idea. It seems like just days ago, we were poaching meringue and now we're turning it into cookies! Yeah, we've come that far. I'll be honest, I will never understand the French culinary proclivity to combine egg whites and sugar but we have learned about 700 different things to do with it. It's not just for lemon pie anymore! Also, we've made about 60 different sauces because literally everything and I mean everything in French culinary school comes with its very own sauce. There are mother sauces, pan sauces, derivative sauces, desert sauces. If it is food, it has a sauce. This more or less means that I am in my own personal heaven considering my adoration of food augmentation.
And to be perfectly honest, though I will probably regret this statement or look back and laugh at myself for it, this is all pretty freaking easy. Everything except filleting a fish. That is a huge, messy, slightly smelly pain in the ass. Well, not as big of a pain in the ass as yellow candy, or being porktose intolerant, but a pain in the ass nonetheless.
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Eat, Dammit.
I have a bone to pick clean with a lot of the world. A lot of the not-naturally skinny world. Eat, dammit. Its good for you. You have to do it for a lot of reasons, one of which is to live. And to thrive. As human beings, we must consume food in order to sustain the natural processes constantly happening in our bodies. Plus, food is really good.
I respect that a lot of magazines and some companies are trying to promote healthy self image, namely Glamour (read this article: http://www.glamour.com/health-fitness/blogs/vitamin-g/2009/09/on-the-cl-are-you-ready-to-sta.html) and Dove. I especially like Dove's Campaign for Real Beauty which seems to be an authentic attempt to shut up the neurotic and obsessive fashion industry and give voice to actual human beings. It's nice. I'm not one hundred percent convinced that Glamour will stick to their word on this one, but I am hoping that they do and I intend to keep an eye on them.
These campaigns are a great idea and are definitely on the right track. But its not just about the food for them. As we are all well aware that eating is a decidedly obsessive passion of mine, I think its only fair to note that I am not exactly the picture of health. But that has little to do with the food I consume and more to do with the fact that I drink, smoke and remain as sedentary as possible when not forced into motion. I have an ongoing battle with momentum.
I'm not as small as I once was. This is due to a number of factors, namely a reduced reliance on amphetamines and diet coke and an increased awareness of well-made hollandaise sauce and blocks of bacon. But I'll tell you this much: I do not want to throw things at the mirror when I look into it anymore. I think some people are just prettier when they're bigger. As every action has an opposite and equal reaction, it must be noted that I often do want to throw things at displays in windows. I compulsively inform my boyfriend "Those aren't real people. They're made up people." to which he most frequently responds that it is inappropriate to hate people because they are skinny. I tend to disagree. And anyway, I only hate people that are skinny but aren't supposed to be. And I do not believe those people, namely Sienna Miller, who claim to eat entire pizzas with no ill effect. You're a liar. And I hate liars. I don't know if I hate Sienna Miller, because I have never met the lady, but I definitely hate her lies. They're dangerous lies.
I'm not knocking the naturally thin... Good for you, ladies. Just, you know, eat, dammit.
I respect that a lot of magazines and some companies are trying to promote healthy self image, namely Glamour (read this article: http://www.glamour.com/health-fitness/blogs/vitamin-g/2009/09/on-the-cl-are-you-ready-to-sta.html) and Dove. I especially like Dove's Campaign for Real Beauty which seems to be an authentic attempt to shut up the neurotic and obsessive fashion industry and give voice to actual human beings. It's nice. I'm not one hundred percent convinced that Glamour will stick to their word on this one, but I am hoping that they do and I intend to keep an eye on them.
These campaigns are a great idea and are definitely on the right track. But its not just about the food for them. As we are all well aware that eating is a decidedly obsessive passion of mine, I think its only fair to note that I am not exactly the picture of health. But that has little to do with the food I consume and more to do with the fact that I drink, smoke and remain as sedentary as possible when not forced into motion. I have an ongoing battle with momentum.
I'm not as small as I once was. This is due to a number of factors, namely a reduced reliance on amphetamines and diet coke and an increased awareness of well-made hollandaise sauce and blocks of bacon. But I'll tell you this much: I do not want to throw things at the mirror when I look into it anymore. I think some people are just prettier when they're bigger. As every action has an opposite and equal reaction, it must be noted that I often do want to throw things at displays in windows. I compulsively inform my boyfriend "Those aren't real people. They're made up people." to which he most frequently responds that it is inappropriate to hate people because they are skinny. I tend to disagree. And anyway, I only hate people that are skinny but aren't supposed to be. And I do not believe those people, namely Sienna Miller, who claim to eat entire pizzas with no ill effect. You're a liar. And I hate liars. I don't know if I hate Sienna Miller, because I have never met the lady, but I definitely hate her lies. They're dangerous lies.
I'm not knocking the naturally thin... Good for you, ladies. Just, you know, eat, dammit.
Friday, October 16, 2009
Lost and Found
If anyone happens to see my eyeglasses, please do let me know. I'm having difficulty seeing without them.
Thanks.
Thanks.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Cake Rape
I can't stay long. As many of you know, I have been hard at work on a paper about a spice that I genuinely despise. I've never liked anise and I certainly don't like it now but that's what's been keeping me. Blame it.
In the meantime, I thought you'd like to know I've been cake raped. This is a phrase coined by a classmate of mine who aptly noted that pastry was screwing us all out of time, valuable time, that could be used to make actual food. You see, in addition to creating three or four culinary masterpieces a day, we are also expected to produce one pastry item.
I hate baking. No, I mean that I really really baking. I dislike baking so much that I will often refrain from roasting meat because it also occurs in an oven and closely resembles the act of baking. Furthermore, I hate putting dough into pastry bags. I dislike putting pastry cream into pastry bags. I dislike piping both of these substances into other vessels and hoping that whomever should have the misfortune of eating them doesn't choke to death on the sawdust that I have produced.
You see, I make good food because I love to make it. Heck, I don't even mind throwing together a nice pate brisee every once in awhile and having a nice quiche for lunch. But for several minutes the other day, I seriously considered quitting school because of a cream puff. Actually, I didn't think about quitting but looking back on it now, I'm really surprised it didn't cross my mind considering how irate I was at the genoise dough. And don't get me started on my pastry cream. I don't have the time to list the ways I loathe that entire process.
The fact of the matter is, I don't mind making desert as long as it is infrequent, not an interference with my ability to serve food on time and specifically requested by someone I like because 1) they are dying and 2) they also have a birthday coming up. The trouble is, I love the pastry chef who teaches us. She's hilarious and Thai and says "Doing!" a lot. ("Doing," by the way, is an especially effective way of conveying a range of points and emotions. Anyway, I just don't have the heart to tell her that I hate what she teaches me. And maybe I'll learn to like it. I probably won't, but in the way captives are inclined toward Stockholm Syndrome, it is always possible I will at least get used to being cake raped.
In the meantime, I thought you'd like to know I've been cake raped. This is a phrase coined by a classmate of mine who aptly noted that pastry was screwing us all out of time, valuable time, that could be used to make actual food. You see, in addition to creating three or four culinary masterpieces a day, we are also expected to produce one pastry item.
I hate baking. No, I mean that I really really baking. I dislike baking so much that I will often refrain from roasting meat because it also occurs in an oven and closely resembles the act of baking. Furthermore, I hate putting dough into pastry bags. I dislike putting pastry cream into pastry bags. I dislike piping both of these substances into other vessels and hoping that whomever should have the misfortune of eating them doesn't choke to death on the sawdust that I have produced.
You see, I make good food because I love to make it. Heck, I don't even mind throwing together a nice pate brisee every once in awhile and having a nice quiche for lunch. But for several minutes the other day, I seriously considered quitting school because of a cream puff. Actually, I didn't think about quitting but looking back on it now, I'm really surprised it didn't cross my mind considering how irate I was at the genoise dough. And don't get me started on my pastry cream. I don't have the time to list the ways I loathe that entire process.
The fact of the matter is, I don't mind making desert as long as it is infrequent, not an interference with my ability to serve food on time and specifically requested by someone I like because 1) they are dying and 2) they also have a birthday coming up. The trouble is, I love the pastry chef who teaches us. She's hilarious and Thai and says "Doing!" a lot. ("Doing," by the way, is an especially effective way of conveying a range of points and emotions. Anyway, I just don't have the heart to tell her that I hate what she teaches me. And maybe I'll learn to like it. I probably won't, but in the way captives are inclined toward Stockholm Syndrome, it is always possible I will at least get used to being cake raped.
Friday, October 9, 2009
Double Homicide
We're murderers. Every single last one of us. Well, maybe we aren't yet, but we most certainly will be. All it takes is one bad shipment of improperly frozen fish and KABOOM! You've killed one of your loyal customers. Or, you've killed 139 of them. In cold blood. Cold blood, I say! And, if you're not too busy killing innocent people, you've got to use any extra time to kill innocent germs. I don't know if I can go through with this.
Wednesday and Thursday of this week were devoted to what was described on our syllabus as "Sanitation." What they should have called it was "Germ Identification, Eradication and Ultimate Germ Warfare Failure Training." I have been waging a war on my hands and their suppleness ever since this training in the science of germ murder began. What they don't tell you on the bottles of antibacterial soap is that it kills practically no bacteria at all, in comparison to what you need to kill in order to stay alive. It is a fucking miracle that we're all still alive, wandering around covered in bacteria, viruses, parasites, you name it. If it's on your hands, it's probably trying to kill you and everyone you love.
And the worst part is, you can't even see it. It's all just there, procreating, wiggling around, being the shape of a cephalopod, gaining access to your internal organs every time you scratch your eye. Our bodies are engaged in constant battle every single day, all day. And that's just in the case of normal, every day murderous germs. This is to say nothing of the kinds of disease and infection you can receive from food that has been improperly handled.
As I discovered through this incredibly thorough ServSafe training, the back of the house is a breeding ground for the insipid pathogens. You're just one step away from permanent paralysis at any second. The wrong person sneezes... Surprise! You have Hepatitis A! Oh, you only cooked the pork to 154 degrees? NOW YOU'RE GOING TO DIE. Or worse, your customer will die, which is more likely in the case of the undercooked pork as in all likelihood, they will contract a parasite that will set up shop in the middle of their brain and excrete poisonous gasses and kill them in two hours. Or maybe it takes two months, I can't remember. Either way, brain surgery for a pork chop doesn't seem a fair trade.
Of course, I don't mean to startle you. There are ways to avoid the death that seems so likely to visit us at any moment. Really, all it takes is common sense. It seems the skin is the main vehicle for germs. So, you could have that removed. An alternative to that is cooking the food to the proper temperature. You also want to make sure that you receive shipments at the proper temperature, get them out of harm's way as soon as humanly possible, and you'll want to disinfect all poultry with Purell before serving it to guests. Also, washing your hands obsessively is a good step in the right direction, though you will want to take care not to wind up like me. I have calluses from the nail brush. But I'm also pretty sure my hands are clean.
The training took sixteen hours. But I am pretty sure that what I have learned will stay with me for sixteen years. If you should find yourself with extra time on your hands today, google "food borne illnesses." Or, actually, don't. Not if you want to ever want to eat out again.
Wednesday and Thursday of this week were devoted to what was described on our syllabus as "Sanitation." What they should have called it was "Germ Identification, Eradication and Ultimate Germ Warfare Failure Training." I have been waging a war on my hands and their suppleness ever since this training in the science of germ murder began. What they don't tell you on the bottles of antibacterial soap is that it kills practically no bacteria at all, in comparison to what you need to kill in order to stay alive. It is a fucking miracle that we're all still alive, wandering around covered in bacteria, viruses, parasites, you name it. If it's on your hands, it's probably trying to kill you and everyone you love.
And the worst part is, you can't even see it. It's all just there, procreating, wiggling around, being the shape of a cephalopod, gaining access to your internal organs every time you scratch your eye. Our bodies are engaged in constant battle every single day, all day. And that's just in the case of normal, every day murderous germs. This is to say nothing of the kinds of disease and infection you can receive from food that has been improperly handled.
As I discovered through this incredibly thorough ServSafe training, the back of the house is a breeding ground for the insipid pathogens. You're just one step away from permanent paralysis at any second. The wrong person sneezes... Surprise! You have Hepatitis A! Oh, you only cooked the pork to 154 degrees? NOW YOU'RE GOING TO DIE. Or worse, your customer will die, which is more likely in the case of the undercooked pork as in all likelihood, they will contract a parasite that will set up shop in the middle of their brain and excrete poisonous gasses and kill them in two hours. Or maybe it takes two months, I can't remember. Either way, brain surgery for a pork chop doesn't seem a fair trade.
Of course, I don't mean to startle you. There are ways to avoid the death that seems so likely to visit us at any moment. Really, all it takes is common sense. It seems the skin is the main vehicle for germs. So, you could have that removed. An alternative to that is cooking the food to the proper temperature. You also want to make sure that you receive shipments at the proper temperature, get them out of harm's way as soon as humanly possible, and you'll want to disinfect all poultry with Purell before serving it to guests. Also, washing your hands obsessively is a good step in the right direction, though you will want to take care not to wind up like me. I have calluses from the nail brush. But I'm also pretty sure my hands are clean.
The training took sixteen hours. But I am pretty sure that what I have learned will stay with me for sixteen years. If you should find yourself with extra time on your hands today, google "food borne illnesses." Or, actually, don't. Not if you want to ever want to eat out again.
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
Injury and Illness
I've been lucky. Generally, whenever I start a new job, or promising relationship or otherwise endeavor to make forward progress in my life, I become sick. And I'm not talking "sniffles, get some rest" kind of sick. I'm saying my body rebels against me in a way that only the very elderly or the constantly-ill infant can understand. Most of the time, this happens within the first two days of whatever new project I've started. It hasn't happened yet and for that, I am pleased.
Here's what I'm not pleased about: I'm totally exhausted. I fell asleep last night at 7:30 and only woke up to move from the bottom floor of my house to the top. I simply cannot imagine what it must be like for those unfortunates who find themselves forced to work through this gruelling coursework. If seven and half hours in class is not enough, we're averaging 700 pages of book readin' a night (That might be a slight exaggeration, but I'm too tired to get up to check my syllabus. Incidentally, I'm too tired to read what is assigned in my syllabus.), anywhere from one to five recipes for writin' a night, and I've been assigned the task of countin' every night.
Weights and measures. As a cook, there is really no excuse not to know them. As an aspiring chef, there is really no reason I should be allowed to cook without knowing them. Here's the trouble: Math, and all of its components (That is, memorization, reason and analytical thinking) escape me. It was practically a miracle that I passed my entrance exam. Now I've got to learn how many teaspoons are in a gallon. Not fair. Well, actually, it's perfectly fair but that has no bearing whatever on whether or not I complain about it.
Speaking of complaining, we're not really permitted to do that at school. "What's that? You just sliced off the top segment of one of your digits? You should be more careful. Put that finger on ice and commence with the bruniose!" Really, it would be more apt to describe Chef as a slave driver. And don't you dare let him find you standing. If you could be standing, you should be working. And working generally means something unpleasant such as slicing the fat off of chicken backs. Or scrubbing floors (literally!). Or, I don't know, there are any number of back breaking tasks that can be thrust upon you at any given moment if you appear in the least bit unoccupied.
Now, I kid. Chef is not only hilarious, he is fair. Plus, he's a wealth of knowledge. After reading and hearing about tyrannical, ego-encrusted chef instructors the world over, I kind of expected that I would encounter a giant French inflatable arm flailing tube man with wild red hair and irrational demands. Chef is more like a cross between Brian the Dog on Family Guy, except less angry and John Cusack, except less confused. That is to say he's smart and nice and not at all frightening. I just don't ever want to piss him off.
Which brings me to my next point. I am more motivated by fear of disappointing someone that I genuinely want to like me than I am of failure itself. This probably would have come in handy when I was a teenager but I either didn't want my parents and teachers to like me or I was different then. Not sure which. And anyway, it isn't so much that I want Chef to like me as I want Chef to like my food. And my knife skills. And the fact that I am wearing a clean, pressed uniform. I guess, what it all boils down to is that I don't want to get in trouble. Which is why I have to go now. I can't breathe and I'm not allowed to go to school when I am sick. I think I might be getting sick.
Here's what I'm not pleased about: I'm totally exhausted. I fell asleep last night at 7:30 and only woke up to move from the bottom floor of my house to the top. I simply cannot imagine what it must be like for those unfortunates who find themselves forced to work through this gruelling coursework. If seven and half hours in class is not enough, we're averaging 700 pages of book readin' a night (That might be a slight exaggeration, but I'm too tired to get up to check my syllabus. Incidentally, I'm too tired to read what is assigned in my syllabus.), anywhere from one to five recipes for writin' a night, and I've been assigned the task of countin' every night.
Weights and measures. As a cook, there is really no excuse not to know them. As an aspiring chef, there is really no reason I should be allowed to cook without knowing them. Here's the trouble: Math, and all of its components (That is, memorization, reason and analytical thinking) escape me. It was practically a miracle that I passed my entrance exam. Now I've got to learn how many teaspoons are in a gallon. Not fair. Well, actually, it's perfectly fair but that has no bearing whatever on whether or not I complain about it.
Speaking of complaining, we're not really permitted to do that at school. "What's that? You just sliced off the top segment of one of your digits? You should be more careful. Put that finger on ice and commence with the bruniose!" Really, it would be more apt to describe Chef as a slave driver. And don't you dare let him find you standing. If you could be standing, you should be working. And working generally means something unpleasant such as slicing the fat off of chicken backs. Or scrubbing floors (literally!). Or, I don't know, there are any number of back breaking tasks that can be thrust upon you at any given moment if you appear in the least bit unoccupied.
Now, I kid. Chef is not only hilarious, he is fair. Plus, he's a wealth of knowledge. After reading and hearing about tyrannical, ego-encrusted chef instructors the world over, I kind of expected that I would encounter a giant French inflatable arm flailing tube man with wild red hair and irrational demands. Chef is more like a cross between Brian the Dog on Family Guy, except less angry and John Cusack, except less confused. That is to say he's smart and nice and not at all frightening. I just don't ever want to piss him off.
Which brings me to my next point. I am more motivated by fear of disappointing someone that I genuinely want to like me than I am of failure itself. This probably would have come in handy when I was a teenager but I either didn't want my parents and teachers to like me or I was different then. Not sure which. And anyway, it isn't so much that I want Chef to like me as I want Chef to like my food. And my knife skills. And the fact that I am wearing a clean, pressed uniform. I guess, what it all boils down to is that I don't want to get in trouble. Which is why I have to go now. I can't breathe and I'm not allowed to go to school when I am sick. I think I might be getting sick.
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
The Academy
So, listen, I know I've been terribly absent and neglectful. I know everyone expected that after making the grand proclamation that I would cease the consumption of fast food, I would have something entertaining to write about. And I would have. Except I didn't.
The truth is, I haven't really missed fast food. There haven't been any insane cravings for tacos dipped in gravy or fried chicken basted with taco sauce. (Although, that sounds great, doesn't it?) I haven't really thought too much about fast food since so heroically claiming that I would not eat it anymore. Plus, I bought a bunch of Lean Pockets the other day, so whenever I crave something sub par and less than food, I pop one of those in the old microwave and two minutes later... Voila! Hot crap in a wrapper! The miracle of modern crisping sleeve technology has really brought down standards and expectations. I'm sorry, loyal readers. I will try to do better.
The good news is, I started school today. (No standing ovation needed. Sit down guys. No, really, it's okay. It was only my first day. You can applaud later. When I graduate. IF I graduate.) If nothing else, my incredibly expensive culinary education promises to bring entertaining fodder for the blog. This is not to say that I met anyone particularly insane today. Which is really too bad. I was hoping to have one hilarious story involving someone sado-masochistic or, in the very least, angry and homicidal. Nothing yet, but I promise to keep my ears and eyes peeled.
The truth is, today was pretty much like every other first day of school (FDOS, for those of you not in the know.) I've ever bothered to be a party to, with the exception of a few "You're all adults, you can make your own decisions" peppered throughout the mundane and bombastic presentation of policies and procedures. Like every other FDOS, it probably could have been condensed into half the time, and we could have been left to our own devices or, God forbid, some actual culinary instruction for the second half of the day. But alas, we, as a society, must compensate for those morons among us that insist upon asking seven hundred questions about every topic that is presented. Morons like, well, me.
Yeah. I guess I'm going to be that guy. Girl. Whatever. It's no different than high school, where, when I bothered to show up, I asked interesting and engaging questions that made the entire class moan out of hatred for my sharp intellect and keen sense of nuance. Except, rather than allowing the taxpayers of this great nation to foot the bill for my ill- spent high school time, I'm paying for it myself (Sort of. Taxpayers are footing the initial bill. Thanks. But I'm paying it back soon.). So I intend to ask even more questions than before. They might even be intelligent, answer- seeking questions like they were today. This is either going to make my classmates hate me, which is, like, whatever, I guess, or it is going to make me the Yoda of L'academie de Cuisine Culinary Arts Class of 2010. I've never seen the movie, but I get the impression that being Yoda is a lot of responsibility, so I don't know which outcome I am rooting for. I'm used to people disliking me. Looking up to me, on the other hand, is really only something I expect of people with very little to entertain them and some of the lesser insects. Either way, it has already elicited a reaction from my chef instructor, who we will refer to here only as Chef (at least until I get permission to exploit him via the Internet.). I asked one of my twenty questions of the day and his response was "Are you in Culinary Arts or Pastry?". My answer was, of course, "Culinary, Chef." His reaction? A very firm, rather pronounced "Excellent." I'm not sure whether I should take that as an affirmation that he is actually pleased to have found me in his class or if it would be in my best interest to ask for a swift transfer to the pastry arts program. Only time will tell, I suppose.
One of the best things about today? Getting my things. My wonderful, beautiful things. I love my things. A brief list of my awesome new things follows below:
1.) The book: On Cooking, A Textbook of Culinary Fundamentals; Fourth Edition. A mere 1406 pages of culinary information that I get the impression I am expected to take as either a latent wealth of knowledge I am not actually expected to utilize to it's full potential or a bunch of culinary fluff that any moron off the street could notice and actualize into a book that weighs nearly ten pounds.
2.) Four top of the line, embroidered (WITH MY NAME), classic chef's jackets. Think Top Chef style, except better because they belong to me me ME! All of them are entirely too big, but that problem will be fixed by Monday with the help of a tailor and over $120 worth of cutting and sewing.
3.) Three incredibly annoying neckerchiefs with the purported purpose of 1) keeping sweat out of innocent people's food and 2) reducing the possibility of me catching the flu in the walk in freezer. I don't know under what conditions, medically speaking, one catches the flu, but the two and half centimeter knot at my throat seems an unlikely barrier to H1N1.
4.) Checked pants. Approximately 17 inches too long, referred to by aforementioned tailor as "pajama pants," hideous. However, they do feature an elastic waistband, which I imagine will come in handy in the coming months.
5.) KNIVES. Beautiful, sharp, Mercer knives. I would be so lucky as to sever my pinkie with one of these beautiful works of art. I have a diamond-encrusted wand with which to sharpen and hone said knives as well as a chef's scissor, sharpener, microplane, vegetable peeler and random blue pocket meat thermometer. But mostly, so far, if all I get out of this is knives, it was mostly worth it.
All in all, a quality day. I have a good feeling about the next twelve months. Tomorrow, we learn French Onion Soup. That and a bunch of other crap, like how to cut vegetables. My syllabus is chock full of words I don't understand, so you'll have to bear with me as I learn all this myself. In the meantime, go eat a Hot Pocket. It might be the last one you want for a long time.
The truth is, I haven't really missed fast food. There haven't been any insane cravings for tacos dipped in gravy or fried chicken basted with taco sauce. (Although, that sounds great, doesn't it?) I haven't really thought too much about fast food since so heroically claiming that I would not eat it anymore. Plus, I bought a bunch of Lean Pockets the other day, so whenever I crave something sub par and less than food, I pop one of those in the old microwave and two minutes later... Voila! Hot crap in a wrapper! The miracle of modern crisping sleeve technology has really brought down standards and expectations. I'm sorry, loyal readers. I will try to do better.
The good news is, I started school today. (No standing ovation needed. Sit down guys. No, really, it's okay. It was only my first day. You can applaud later. When I graduate. IF I graduate.) If nothing else, my incredibly expensive culinary education promises to bring entertaining fodder for the blog. This is not to say that I met anyone particularly insane today. Which is really too bad. I was hoping to have one hilarious story involving someone sado-masochistic or, in the very least, angry and homicidal. Nothing yet, but I promise to keep my ears and eyes peeled.
The truth is, today was pretty much like every other first day of school (FDOS, for those of you not in the know.) I've ever bothered to be a party to, with the exception of a few "You're all adults, you can make your own decisions" peppered throughout the mundane and bombastic presentation of policies and procedures. Like every other FDOS, it probably could have been condensed into half the time, and we could have been left to our own devices or, God forbid, some actual culinary instruction for the second half of the day. But alas, we, as a society, must compensate for those morons among us that insist upon asking seven hundred questions about every topic that is presented. Morons like, well, me.
Yeah. I guess I'm going to be that guy. Girl. Whatever. It's no different than high school, where, when I bothered to show up, I asked interesting and engaging questions that made the entire class moan out of hatred for my sharp intellect and keen sense of nuance. Except, rather than allowing the taxpayers of this great nation to foot the bill for my ill- spent high school time, I'm paying for it myself (Sort of. Taxpayers are footing the initial bill. Thanks. But I'm paying it back soon.). So I intend to ask even more questions than before. They might even be intelligent, answer- seeking questions like they were today. This is either going to make my classmates hate me, which is, like, whatever, I guess, or it is going to make me the Yoda of L'academie de Cuisine Culinary Arts Class of 2010. I've never seen the movie, but I get the impression that being Yoda is a lot of responsibility, so I don't know which outcome I am rooting for. I'm used to people disliking me. Looking up to me, on the other hand, is really only something I expect of people with very little to entertain them and some of the lesser insects. Either way, it has already elicited a reaction from my chef instructor, who we will refer to here only as Chef (at least until I get permission to exploit him via the Internet.). I asked one of my twenty questions of the day and his response was "Are you in Culinary Arts or Pastry?". My answer was, of course, "Culinary, Chef." His reaction? A very firm, rather pronounced "Excellent." I'm not sure whether I should take that as an affirmation that he is actually pleased to have found me in his class or if it would be in my best interest to ask for a swift transfer to the pastry arts program. Only time will tell, I suppose.
One of the best things about today? Getting my things. My wonderful, beautiful things. I love my things. A brief list of my awesome new things follows below:
1.) The book: On Cooking, A Textbook of Culinary Fundamentals; Fourth Edition. A mere 1406 pages of culinary information that I get the impression I am expected to take as either a latent wealth of knowledge I am not actually expected to utilize to it's full potential or a bunch of culinary fluff that any moron off the street could notice and actualize into a book that weighs nearly ten pounds.
2.) Four top of the line, embroidered (WITH MY NAME), classic chef's jackets. Think Top Chef style, except better because they belong to me me ME! All of them are entirely too big, but that problem will be fixed by Monday with the help of a tailor and over $120 worth of cutting and sewing.
3.) Three incredibly annoying neckerchiefs with the purported purpose of 1) keeping sweat out of innocent people's food and 2) reducing the possibility of me catching the flu in the walk in freezer. I don't know under what conditions, medically speaking, one catches the flu, but the two and half centimeter knot at my throat seems an unlikely barrier to H1N1.
4.) Checked pants. Approximately 17 inches too long, referred to by aforementioned tailor as "pajama pants," hideous. However, they do feature an elastic waistband, which I imagine will come in handy in the coming months.
5.) KNIVES. Beautiful, sharp, Mercer knives. I would be so lucky as to sever my pinkie with one of these beautiful works of art. I have a diamond-encrusted wand with which to sharpen and hone said knives as well as a chef's scissor, sharpener, microplane, vegetable peeler and random blue pocket meat thermometer. But mostly, so far, if all I get out of this is knives, it was mostly worth it.
All in all, a quality day. I have a good feeling about the next twelve months. Tomorrow, we learn French Onion Soup. That and a bunch of other crap, like how to cut vegetables. My syllabus is chock full of words I don't understand, so you'll have to bear with me as I learn all this myself. In the meantime, go eat a Hot Pocket. It might be the last one you want for a long time.
Monday, September 14, 2009
To Eat to Live or Live to Eat? That is the Question.
I have just finished my last fast food meal. Well, my last fast food meal for, oh, let's say a month. We'll start with that. That sounds doable. Right?
I went out with one my classic meals: Two extra crispy drumsticks, two mounds of snowy, over-processed mashed potatoes and an extra side of under-salted, slightly gelatinous gravy of questionable origins. This is what I get when I it's 7:30 on a Monday and I haven't given any thought to what I am going to prepare for dinner. Or at least it's what I've gotten since Boston Market started sucking so much.
This is a decision that I considered heavily. Anyone who has ever eaten in a car with me knows that I have a dedication to certain fast food restaurants that could be classified as somewhere between loyal and obsessive. As self examination is one of my less-frequently utilized forms of entertainment, I will leave you to your opinion. The point is, I love fast food. I have a meal at each of my preferred outlets that I will only stray from in the event of alcohol consumption or apocalypse. I have a special way of preparing and consuming each item, down to the fact that I eat my extra crispy chicken directly over the top of my double order of mashed potatoes so that the extra crispies that fall off will land in the bed of potato, creating an interesting textural backdrop for the gravy that is delivered to my mouth via the potatoes. (And I will state here, for the record and in the case of pretty much every mashed potato recipe in existence, that I consider potatoes merely a vessel created for the purpose of delivering gravy. That is not to say that I won't eat mashed potatoes without gravy. I will. And I do. I'm just saying, they were created for the gravy. This is a point that I consider indisputable.)
You may be asking now why, given my inveterate, nearly fiendish love of all things fried or assembled in a line to my specifications, I have decided to forgo the ease and comfort of my friend, the fast food restaurant. There are a few reasons for this. One, I decided awhile ago that I'd rather not consume ingredients that are more than three syllables long. I feel that ingredients like sodium tripolyphospate don't belong in food. I am certain that one word food items that are perfectly natural but more than three syllables long exist, but I can't think of any off the top of my head. Watermelon. That's one. Two, I'm curious to see if merely avoiding fast food result in a miraculous loss of recently acquired weight. I don't know how people get slender, and I'm not buying into this new "exercise" trend, but I am fairly confident that eating tacos prepared with grade F meat is not how this is accomplished. Thirdly, it is expected of me that I shall develop a more sophisticated palate in the coming months and I know for a fact that the Arby's medium beef with cheddar is not high up on the list of sophisticated foods. Nor are the oft-overlooked pintos and cheese at Taco Bell, or the "chicken" nuggets you can find at your neighborhood McDonald's.
I guess, to make a long story short, when you get down it, fast food just isn't that good. There is this concept of "eating to live" running rampant out there, especially here in suburban America. And in Subsaharan Africa. I do not and will not ascribe to this way of life. I ascertain that this concept is accepted due to the constant availability of quickly prepared and thoughtlessly assembled sandwiches containing sub-par ingredients in often inadequate portions (A quarter of a slice of American cheese on the Filet O'Fish? Really?). The line tonight at KFC was at least 8 cars long when we pulled into the parking lot and not a single person was in line inside. It's there, it's cheap, it's easy and, despite the aforementioned sub-par ingredients, it tastes good. Sort of.
But for the purpose of this particular experiment, and many others for that matter, I will strive to live to eat. So, starting tomorrow, Tuesday, September 15, I will Live to Eat Another Day. Or at least I'll try.
I went out with one my classic meals: Two extra crispy drumsticks, two mounds of snowy, over-processed mashed potatoes and an extra side of under-salted, slightly gelatinous gravy of questionable origins. This is what I get when I it's 7:30 on a Monday and I haven't given any thought to what I am going to prepare for dinner. Or at least it's what I've gotten since Boston Market started sucking so much.
This is a decision that I considered heavily. Anyone who has ever eaten in a car with me knows that I have a dedication to certain fast food restaurants that could be classified as somewhere between loyal and obsessive. As self examination is one of my less-frequently utilized forms of entertainment, I will leave you to your opinion. The point is, I love fast food. I have a meal at each of my preferred outlets that I will only stray from in the event of alcohol consumption or apocalypse. I have a special way of preparing and consuming each item, down to the fact that I eat my extra crispy chicken directly over the top of my double order of mashed potatoes so that the extra crispies that fall off will land in the bed of potato, creating an interesting textural backdrop for the gravy that is delivered to my mouth via the potatoes. (And I will state here, for the record and in the case of pretty much every mashed potato recipe in existence, that I consider potatoes merely a vessel created for the purpose of delivering gravy. That is not to say that I won't eat mashed potatoes without gravy. I will. And I do. I'm just saying, they were created for the gravy. This is a point that I consider indisputable.)
You may be asking now why, given my inveterate, nearly fiendish love of all things fried or assembled in a line to my specifications, I have decided to forgo the ease and comfort of my friend, the fast food restaurant. There are a few reasons for this. One, I decided awhile ago that I'd rather not consume ingredients that are more than three syllables long. I feel that ingredients like sodium tripolyphospate don't belong in food. I am certain that one word food items that are perfectly natural but more than three syllables long exist, but I can't think of any off the top of my head. Watermelon. That's one. Two, I'm curious to see if merely avoiding fast food result in a miraculous loss of recently acquired weight. I don't know how people get slender, and I'm not buying into this new "exercise" trend, but I am fairly confident that eating tacos prepared with grade F meat is not how this is accomplished. Thirdly, it is expected of me that I shall develop a more sophisticated palate in the coming months and I know for a fact that the Arby's medium beef with cheddar is not high up on the list of sophisticated foods. Nor are the oft-overlooked pintos and cheese at Taco Bell, or the "chicken" nuggets you can find at your neighborhood McDonald's.
I guess, to make a long story short, when you get down it, fast food just isn't that good. There is this concept of "eating to live" running rampant out there, especially here in suburban America. And in Subsaharan Africa. I do not and will not ascribe to this way of life. I ascertain that this concept is accepted due to the constant availability of quickly prepared and thoughtlessly assembled sandwiches containing sub-par ingredients in often inadequate portions (A quarter of a slice of American cheese on the Filet O'Fish? Really?). The line tonight at KFC was at least 8 cars long when we pulled into the parking lot and not a single person was in line inside. It's there, it's cheap, it's easy and, despite the aforementioned sub-par ingredients, it tastes good. Sort of.
But for the purpose of this particular experiment, and many others for that matter, I will strive to live to eat. So, starting tomorrow, Tuesday, September 15, I will Live to Eat Another Day. Or at least I'll try.
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
In Defense of the Food Chain
I have a short list of things that I refuse to eat. This list is composed of items that I find detestable due to mostly emotional principals that border on hypocritical and are generally pathological. To make my point however, I will say that I love dogs. And so I cannot eat them. I love to eat chickens, but at no point in my life have I ever been emotionally involved with anything that could be remotely mistaken for poultry. In fact, it is my opinion that the vast majority of birds that are flying around in a murderous rage (And all birds, no exceptions, are flying around in a murderous rage) are hoping to be humanely murdered and consumed. I call this Manifest Destiny. You call it whatever you want.
I have no problem with vegetarians as a whole. I get it... You can get protein from beans and you see no reason to kill animals for your nutrition. Fine. Whatever. The thing is, beans taste a hell of a lot better when you add bacon to them. Have you ever tried tried to eat lentil stew without the aid of a pork or beef product? It's disgusting. I understand you have your principals but really, you're all missing out.
I have a friend who read a book once. I don't know much about this book, I think it was called Skinny Bitch, other than the fact that it is systematically destroying the food chain as we know it. Immediately after reading the book, she became a vegan. This means that not only did she eschew reason by remaining meat-free, she also vowed to stay away from delightful foods such as dairy, eggs and anything else that tasted good. I visited her apartment once. You know what she had in her fridge? Grapes. Grapes and one half of one cucumber. Curiously, she also had wine coolers, which I am pretty sure kill a dove every time you drink one.
Anyway, this nonsense went on for the better part of two years. She would occasionally break with this insane lifestyle and consume a piece of cheese pizza. Every time, though, she felt guilty. (I want to break away here and make a point. Cows must be milked. If they are not milked regularly, they become ill. Same with chickens. They lay eggs. Naturally. It is what they do. Therefore, I see absolutely no reason why a sane, self-possessed person would avoid cheese or milk or butter or any other dairy product. But then again, I see no reason why a sane, self-possessed person would avoid beef, pork or roasted quail stuffed with sausage and sage, so maybe I am not the right person to ask.) This all ended one fateful night at a little place called Ketchup. I will say one thing about this restaurant and that is that Ketchup's menu is delightfully skewed with an interest toward the carnivore. I realize that technically, humans are omnivores but I do not consider a meal complete without a large hunk of meat that was never any part of a soybean plant. However, if you were to offer me a steak with a side of shrimp, accompanied by a sauce made of chicken, I would consider that to be a balanced meal and would only question the lack of vegetable if I was still hungry when I was finished eating.
So, my friend, we'll call her Erin because that is what is on her birth certificate, finally came back to the world of the living. She ordered a pork chop. And she ate the whole thing. Her body did not instantly convulse upon her consumption of said pork chop, she did not drop dead at the table. In fact, if my memory serves me, we went on to an art show and then a night of excessive consumption of alcohol. If she did throw up that night, I assure you it had nothing to do with the pig. As far as I know, Erin is still leading a happy, omnivorous life. She does live in Richmond, so it is possible that those whack jobs down there are trying to reconvert her but the point is, she was happy, for a time, as a meat consumer. And in this way, we complete the circle of life.
I want to make one final point (for this post, anyway) about consuming animals. There is this concept flying around out there that force feeding animals is cruel. I can see why you might think that, but join me, for a moment, in considering the following. Humans force feed themselves and their children every day. How many times have you been out at a restaurant and heard "Come on, Timmy. Three more bites."? And you, you who won't eat foie gras or veal, what did you do last Thanksgiving? Did you say, "Well, I've just had a regular portion of meat and eight kinds of side dishes. I think I'll go ahead and put my plate away." Did you? No. You said, "I may have just eaten my body weight in turkey and mashed potatoes, but somebody's gotta eat that corn pudding and green bean casserole. That somebody might as well be me." My point, as convoluted as it may be, is that maybe, just maybe, those overfed geese are just as happy as your average adult American male after his third plateful of food on Christmas. And just think, they get to be that happy every day.
I have no problem with vegetarians as a whole. I get it... You can get protein from beans and you see no reason to kill animals for your nutrition. Fine. Whatever. The thing is, beans taste a hell of a lot better when you add bacon to them. Have you ever tried tried to eat lentil stew without the aid of a pork or beef product? It's disgusting. I understand you have your principals but really, you're all missing out.
I have a friend who read a book once. I don't know much about this book, I think it was called Skinny Bitch, other than the fact that it is systematically destroying the food chain as we know it. Immediately after reading the book, she became a vegan. This means that not only did she eschew reason by remaining meat-free, she also vowed to stay away from delightful foods such as dairy, eggs and anything else that tasted good. I visited her apartment once. You know what she had in her fridge? Grapes. Grapes and one half of one cucumber. Curiously, she also had wine coolers, which I am pretty sure kill a dove every time you drink one.
Anyway, this nonsense went on for the better part of two years. She would occasionally break with this insane lifestyle and consume a piece of cheese pizza. Every time, though, she felt guilty. (I want to break away here and make a point. Cows must be milked. If they are not milked regularly, they become ill. Same with chickens. They lay eggs. Naturally. It is what they do. Therefore, I see absolutely no reason why a sane, self-possessed person would avoid cheese or milk or butter or any other dairy product. But then again, I see no reason why a sane, self-possessed person would avoid beef, pork or roasted quail stuffed with sausage and sage, so maybe I am not the right person to ask.) This all ended one fateful night at a little place called Ketchup. I will say one thing about this restaurant and that is that Ketchup's menu is delightfully skewed with an interest toward the carnivore. I realize that technically, humans are omnivores but I do not consider a meal complete without a large hunk of meat that was never any part of a soybean plant. However, if you were to offer me a steak with a side of shrimp, accompanied by a sauce made of chicken, I would consider that to be a balanced meal and would only question the lack of vegetable if I was still hungry when I was finished eating.
So, my friend, we'll call her Erin because that is what is on her birth certificate, finally came back to the world of the living. She ordered a pork chop. And she ate the whole thing. Her body did not instantly convulse upon her consumption of said pork chop, she did not drop dead at the table. In fact, if my memory serves me, we went on to an art show and then a night of excessive consumption of alcohol. If she did throw up that night, I assure you it had nothing to do with the pig. As far as I know, Erin is still leading a happy, omnivorous life. She does live in Richmond, so it is possible that those whack jobs down there are trying to reconvert her but the point is, she was happy, for a time, as a meat consumer. And in this way, we complete the circle of life.
I want to make one final point (for this post, anyway) about consuming animals. There is this concept flying around out there that force feeding animals is cruel. I can see why you might think that, but join me, for a moment, in considering the following. Humans force feed themselves and their children every day. How many times have you been out at a restaurant and heard "Come on, Timmy. Three more bites."? And you, you who won't eat foie gras or veal, what did you do last Thanksgiving? Did you say, "Well, I've just had a regular portion of meat and eight kinds of side dishes. I think I'll go ahead and put my plate away." Did you? No. You said, "I may have just eaten my body weight in turkey and mashed potatoes, but somebody's gotta eat that corn pudding and green bean casserole. That somebody might as well be me." My point, as convoluted as it may be, is that maybe, just maybe, those overfed geese are just as happy as your average adult American male after his third plateful of food on Christmas. And just think, they get to be that happy every day.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
The Leather Blazer and Sexual Exploits of Ex Pats
I am a huge fan of making blanket statements of questionable truth. I know you all know this, but I want to go ahead and make that note before we begin today's post.
Johnny Diesel is an angry motherfucker. No, that's not right, he is an angry Finnish, tax evading, self proclaimed mother fucker. And he might be completely insane. We first happened on Johnny Diesel at a lovely little place on Rue de Clichy in Montemarte called O'Sullivans. Go ahead and make whatever joke you'd like me drinking at a place called O'Sullivans, I don't care. We wanted a pint and this was an awesome place the night before (It's where I met Tim and David, previous post) and Richard, the manager. Sure I could have found some other, more Parisian place to drink but then I never would have met Johnny Diesel. It's difficult to explain Johnny Diesel without giving you a vision of what I first saw of him. He stood, leather blazer slung jauntily over his left shoulder, tiny glass of red wine in his right hand, shouting at a 6'5 bouncer of rather imposing stature. He was being tossed from his chair for the sake of repositioning the patio for the late- night crowd. Now, we, too were asked to rearrange ourselves for the same reason but at least Kris and I had the good sense to accept this demand and make a note to get the hell out of Dodge before this guy came back and launched us off the patio in the giant slingshot he no doubt hid in his cavernous biceps. After we finished our $10 pints. Johnny Diesel did no such thing. "Thees ees sheet! I feenish my vine vhen I vant to, I leef vhen I vant to!" (This is a poor artist's rendering of a Finnish accent. The best I could do.) Somehow, Johnny Diesel found his way to us, I guess because he needed to further voice his frustration with the management. And every other authoritarian body known to man. He hates government. All of them. He hates paying taxes and in an effort to avoid paying them, he traipses around the world, working jobs in some complicated field of aerospace or nutrition or something, I can't remember, for no longer than 90 days at each post. He openly explained that he was there to meet some woman, who was not his wife, with the intention of engaging in extramarital relations with her. This guy was intense. And, like I said, probably a little insane. We saw him at another bar, later that night and he seemed to have calmed down very slightly but by this time, his teeth were the shade of eggplant and he was having difficulty with the concept of speaking and keeping his saliva in his mouth at the same time. And he was still wearing a leather blazer. Which, in my opinion, is the most ridiculous thing about him.
A few words on Notre Dame: Go. Shit. That is one word on Notre Dame. Okay, a few more: Go soon and with as much time to spare as you can. Get the audio tour for 5 Euro. You'll be glad you did. Light a candle, see the treasury and try to do it on a day when the crown of thorns is being displayed. We missed that, but it really would have been a nice touch. For me, it was enough knowing that I was in the same room as where the crown of thorns occasionally hangs out. But if I had been there on a day when it was out for the seeing, I don't think that that would have been enough.
So, side note real quick before I have to go, I'm going to praise myself again. Get ready. I had at least five people in France tell me that I had a perfect French accent. Granted, they were hearing me say one word, of the five that I actually know, at a time. And granted, I had to explain that despite extensive French training in school, I had retained the equivalent of no French at all, but still. Like, go me. Seriously, I am awesome.
Johnny Diesel is an angry motherfucker. No, that's not right, he is an angry Finnish, tax evading, self proclaimed mother fucker. And he might be completely insane. We first happened on Johnny Diesel at a lovely little place on Rue de Clichy in Montemarte called O'Sullivans. Go ahead and make whatever joke you'd like me drinking at a place called O'Sullivans, I don't care. We wanted a pint and this was an awesome place the night before (It's where I met Tim and David, previous post) and Richard, the manager. Sure I could have found some other, more Parisian place to drink but then I never would have met Johnny Diesel. It's difficult to explain Johnny Diesel without giving you a vision of what I first saw of him. He stood, leather blazer slung jauntily over his left shoulder, tiny glass of red wine in his right hand, shouting at a 6'5 bouncer of rather imposing stature. He was being tossed from his chair for the sake of repositioning the patio for the late- night crowd. Now, we, too were asked to rearrange ourselves for the same reason but at least Kris and I had the good sense to accept this demand and make a note to get the hell out of Dodge before this guy came back and launched us off the patio in the giant slingshot he no doubt hid in his cavernous biceps. After we finished our $10 pints. Johnny Diesel did no such thing. "Thees ees sheet! I feenish my vine vhen I vant to, I leef vhen I vant to!" (This is a poor artist's rendering of a Finnish accent. The best I could do.) Somehow, Johnny Diesel found his way to us, I guess because he needed to further voice his frustration with the management. And every other authoritarian body known to man. He hates government. All of them. He hates paying taxes and in an effort to avoid paying them, he traipses around the world, working jobs in some complicated field of aerospace or nutrition or something, I can't remember, for no longer than 90 days at each post. He openly explained that he was there to meet some woman, who was not his wife, with the intention of engaging in extramarital relations with her. This guy was intense. And, like I said, probably a little insane. We saw him at another bar, later that night and he seemed to have calmed down very slightly but by this time, his teeth were the shade of eggplant and he was having difficulty with the concept of speaking and keeping his saliva in his mouth at the same time. And he was still wearing a leather blazer. Which, in my opinion, is the most ridiculous thing about him.
A few words on Notre Dame: Go. Shit. That is one word on Notre Dame. Okay, a few more: Go soon and with as much time to spare as you can. Get the audio tour for 5 Euro. You'll be glad you did. Light a candle, see the treasury and try to do it on a day when the crown of thorns is being displayed. We missed that, but it really would have been a nice touch. For me, it was enough knowing that I was in the same room as where the crown of thorns occasionally hangs out. But if I had been there on a day when it was out for the seeing, I don't think that that would have been enough.
So, side note real quick before I have to go, I'm going to praise myself again. Get ready. I had at least five people in France tell me that I had a perfect French accent. Granted, they were hearing me say one word, of the five that I actually know, at a time. And granted, I had to explain that despite extensive French training in school, I had retained the equivalent of no French at all, but still. Like, go me. Seriously, I am awesome.
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Aaaaand... We're back. Here. In America. Our plane did not plummet into the icy depths of the Atlantic Ocean and I can't even really complain about the any part of the travel involved with this particular trip. Which means I can't be witty about it, so we'll move on now.
While I wish I could recount every detail of this trip in vivid, technicolor writing, that would be impossible. There are entirely too many weirdos and crazy people, too many paintings and massive sculptures, too many plants and an odd lack of actual animals. I can cover the highlights, though.
There are no squirrels in Paris. None. I mean that, I did not see a single bright eyed or bushy tailed vermin the entire time I was there. I saw a ton of dogs, all on leashes, none of them mauling innocent bystanders or the elderly. For the most part, I find that French dogs are considerably more refined than the average American congressperson. For instance, they don't shit. There is less evidence of dog bowel activity in Paris than there is human. We've covered the subject of Paris's unpleasant odor and I can personally assure you that not a single dog had anything to do with it.
We should discuss the trash can situation though. It is altogether baffling to me that the Parisian government did not invest in a more decorative receptacle for the rubbish generated by the city's occupants and visitors. Everything I saw in France was elegant, detailed and well considered. Some of it ridiculously so. So it alarms me that the were not bothered to consider the rubbish receptacle. If I had to guess, there are 20 million trash depositories in Paris. They are all the same. These receptacles consist of one green pole, approximately three feet in height, with a green hoop, approximately 12 inches in diameter affixed in much the same manner as a basketball hoop would be to a backboard, with a clear green trash bag placed unceremoniously in said hoop and allowed to flow freely in the breeze until filled with empty packs of cigarettes, the napkins involved with the consumption of baguette and ice cream (Don't be fooled by all the hoopla, this all anyone eats in France.) and everything else that you can think of except for dog waste. Kris has surmised that they designed the bins this way so that one can see when the bin is full. But he is insane and I don't believe him. Plus, I don't think I ever saw anyone actually empty or change a rubbish bin. It is like Paris is the Great City of Disappearing Trash. Jolly well, I say. Can't complain about that.
I met a great many interesting people while in Paris. I had the honor of meeting a lovely Australian couple my first night there. Damien and Marisa were funny, light hearted and made the night a great success when the best I hope for was to hear three or four English words in a night. Thank God for them or I might not have gone out the second night and met my new friends Tim, David and Mattieu (I may or may not be spelling that right. But I presume this is French for Matthew and it is a hell of a lot more fun to say.). It happens that Tim and David, one of the absolute most adorable couples I have ever met, live right here in DC and we will be rendezvousing for spaghetti and meatballs when Mattieu visits next week. I guess that is one of the idiosyncrasies of travel, you sometimes meet people you have the pleasure of knowing again, if you're lucky.
And I was. My trip to France really changed my outlook on a lot of things. I had a hard second day there, but I am very very glad that I did what I did. And I'm even more glad that Kris was able to join me there. There is a line in Into the Wild, by Jon Krakauer, which was a notation by Chris McCandless, that says "HAPPINESS ONLY REAL WHEN SHARED." It's totally true. I could have spent that week in Paris alone. And I probably would have enjoyed it. But it wouldn't have been the same. It would have been as fun. I think the people I met in France and the person that joined me in France made the fact that I will someday again visit France a truth, rather than a wish.
So, thank you France. Thank you Damien and Marisa. Thank you Tim and David and Mattieu. And thanks, Kris, for following me to France.
I will continue to blog about my trip to Paris over the next couple of days but if you will excuse me, I have to go write a letter to the French government about the scent of the Metro and the lack of decorative trash receptacles. And then I have to cook something before I jump out of my own skin.
While I wish I could recount every detail of this trip in vivid, technicolor writing, that would be impossible. There are entirely too many weirdos and crazy people, too many paintings and massive sculptures, too many plants and an odd lack of actual animals. I can cover the highlights, though.
There are no squirrels in Paris. None. I mean that, I did not see a single bright eyed or bushy tailed vermin the entire time I was there. I saw a ton of dogs, all on leashes, none of them mauling innocent bystanders or the elderly. For the most part, I find that French dogs are considerably more refined than the average American congressperson. For instance, they don't shit. There is less evidence of dog bowel activity in Paris than there is human. We've covered the subject of Paris's unpleasant odor and I can personally assure you that not a single dog had anything to do with it.
We should discuss the trash can situation though. It is altogether baffling to me that the Parisian government did not invest in a more decorative receptacle for the rubbish generated by the city's occupants and visitors. Everything I saw in France was elegant, detailed and well considered. Some of it ridiculously so. So it alarms me that the were not bothered to consider the rubbish receptacle. If I had to guess, there are 20 million trash depositories in Paris. They are all the same. These receptacles consist of one green pole, approximately three feet in height, with a green hoop, approximately 12 inches in diameter affixed in much the same manner as a basketball hoop would be to a backboard, with a clear green trash bag placed unceremoniously in said hoop and allowed to flow freely in the breeze until filled with empty packs of cigarettes, the napkins involved with the consumption of baguette and ice cream (Don't be fooled by all the hoopla, this all anyone eats in France.) and everything else that you can think of except for dog waste. Kris has surmised that they designed the bins this way so that one can see when the bin is full. But he is insane and I don't believe him. Plus, I don't think I ever saw anyone actually empty or change a rubbish bin. It is like Paris is the Great City of Disappearing Trash. Jolly well, I say. Can't complain about that.
I met a great many interesting people while in Paris. I had the honor of meeting a lovely Australian couple my first night there. Damien and Marisa were funny, light hearted and made the night a great success when the best I hope for was to hear three or four English words in a night. Thank God for them or I might not have gone out the second night and met my new friends Tim, David and Mattieu (I may or may not be spelling that right. But I presume this is French for Matthew and it is a hell of a lot more fun to say.). It happens that Tim and David, one of the absolute most adorable couples I have ever met, live right here in DC and we will be rendezvousing for spaghetti and meatballs when Mattieu visits next week. I guess that is one of the idiosyncrasies of travel, you sometimes meet people you have the pleasure of knowing again, if you're lucky.
And I was. My trip to France really changed my outlook on a lot of things. I had a hard second day there, but I am very very glad that I did what I did. And I'm even more glad that Kris was able to join me there. There is a line in Into the Wild, by Jon Krakauer, which was a notation by Chris McCandless, that says "HAPPINESS ONLY REAL WHEN SHARED." It's totally true. I could have spent that week in Paris alone. And I probably would have enjoyed it. But it wouldn't have been the same. It would have been as fun. I think the people I met in France and the person that joined me in France made the fact that I will someday again visit France a truth, rather than a wish.
So, thank you France. Thank you Damien and Marisa. Thank you Tim and David and Mattieu. And thanks, Kris, for following me to France.
I will continue to blog about my trip to Paris over the next couple of days but if you will excuse me, I have to go write a letter to the French government about the scent of the Metro and the lack of decorative trash receptacles. And then I have to cook something before I jump out of my own skin.
Sunday, August 23, 2009
The World is My Toilette
Note: My spellcheck is broken and the highest grade I completed was third. Don't judge me, please. Or actually, go ahead. Like I care.
The French have the most ineffcient toilets I have ever seen in my life. Okay, so there is approximately a coffee cup worth of water in each vessel(the vessel being slightly smaller than your usual American toilet, which contains all of the necessary water immediately at your disposal.). You are expected to expel all of you waste into said vessel, often creating a backlog of, um, stuff, in said vessel. Upon my arrival I assumed that this was a matter of water conservation, or, in the very least, economics. Then I flushed a toilet.
I did not have the courage to use a toilet for it's ultimate purpose immediately as all are controlled by a duo of buttons, neither of which are marked by reference to their use. When I entered my hotel room and discovered the abundance of flushing options, I gingerly pressed the left button, allowing it time to spray me in the face with fresh toilet water if that is what happened to be the intention of the left button's position.
I then quickly pressed the right option and jumped behind the door of my bathroom, just in case that particular button meant "drown American tourist with torrent of water, alllowing room for European tourist who happens to understand the mechanics of the double bathroom button and is willing to pay 10 more Euro a night". I donned a pair of goggles especially for this purpose. I did not drown.
Both seemed to illicit the same reaction from the toilet: Niagra falls in tiny toilet relief. It was actually quite spectacular if you happen to be impressed by wasting water. Like I said, I initially assumed that one option was utilized for the purpose of drowning innocent people. The other, I figured, was for urine. I was wrong on both counts. The toilet, and it is always a double button option on every single toilet you use here in Paris, (maybe France, maybe Europe) is also probably the same in space. If I had to guess how they pee in space. Either way, it always smells; pressing the button always results in an overwhelming sense that the apocolypse will immediately issue forth from your current, observing (for you must always check to make sure that all of your pee has gone away for any person that might follow after you into the toilet) position and that maybe, just maybe, the toilet will actually leave the proper amount of water in your basin for the next necesarry act. It never does. Just going number one generally results in both a possible religious experience and the inverse response that one would experience when hoping to see the world's most important relic and actually finding a crappy, overcooked, inedible French fry in it's place.
I have barely touched on the issue of how much water actually rushes forth in the event of a flush. I recognize that it does essentially the same job at home but I also support the idea of a cleaner- smelling Earth. This will never happen with the inexpliccable toilets in France. It may overwhelm the septic system (and, in certain Metro stations, it really, really, really smells like it must) but I find that this is preferred by the Parisian decision makers over the other option: Febreeze.
I don't mean to complain but, well, I am an American and that is what I do. It is clear to me that that smell is going directly into the olefacory systems of innocent people who do not deserve to experience the scent of a dead body in a vent when what they really paid for was to smell a giant Parisienne rose. That is, after all, what all other subway systems in the world smell like. Right?
In essence, it appears that a city that is situated around a river that houses the largest boats I have ever personally seen in my life does not wish to properly flush a toilet for the sake of keeping a couple of ducks disease free. At least, that is the best I can figure. Just a word, Paris; Don't take this personally, but most of your city does not smell great, despite it's wonderful appearance. Go ahead and empty these overburdended toilets somewhere besides the public transportation points and you might find that you're on to something. I know of a great landfill: it's called the sewer.
The French have the most ineffcient toilets I have ever seen in my life. Okay, so there is approximately a coffee cup worth of water in each vessel(the vessel being slightly smaller than your usual American toilet, which contains all of the necessary water immediately at your disposal.). You are expected to expel all of you waste into said vessel, often creating a backlog of, um, stuff, in said vessel. Upon my arrival I assumed that this was a matter of water conservation, or, in the very least, economics. Then I flushed a toilet.
I did not have the courage to use a toilet for it's ultimate purpose immediately as all are controlled by a duo of buttons, neither of which are marked by reference to their use. When I entered my hotel room and discovered the abundance of flushing options, I gingerly pressed the left button, allowing it time to spray me in the face with fresh toilet water if that is what happened to be the intention of the left button's position.
I then quickly pressed the right option and jumped behind the door of my bathroom, just in case that particular button meant "drown American tourist with torrent of water, alllowing room for European tourist who happens to understand the mechanics of the double bathroom button and is willing to pay 10 more Euro a night". I donned a pair of goggles especially for this purpose. I did not drown.
Both seemed to illicit the same reaction from the toilet: Niagra falls in tiny toilet relief. It was actually quite spectacular if you happen to be impressed by wasting water. Like I said, I initially assumed that one option was utilized for the purpose of drowning innocent people. The other, I figured, was for urine. I was wrong on both counts. The toilet, and it is always a double button option on every single toilet you use here in Paris, (maybe France, maybe Europe) is also probably the same in space. If I had to guess how they pee in space. Either way, it always smells; pressing the button always results in an overwhelming sense that the apocolypse will immediately issue forth from your current, observing (for you must always check to make sure that all of your pee has gone away for any person that might follow after you into the toilet) position and that maybe, just maybe, the toilet will actually leave the proper amount of water in your basin for the next necesarry act. It never does. Just going number one generally results in both a possible religious experience and the inverse response that one would experience when hoping to see the world's most important relic and actually finding a crappy, overcooked, inedible French fry in it's place.
I have barely touched on the issue of how much water actually rushes forth in the event of a flush. I recognize that it does essentially the same job at home but I also support the idea of a cleaner- smelling Earth. This will never happen with the inexpliccable toilets in France. It may overwhelm the septic system (and, in certain Metro stations, it really, really, really smells like it must) but I find that this is preferred by the Parisian decision makers over the other option: Febreeze.
I don't mean to complain but, well, I am an American and that is what I do. It is clear to me that that smell is going directly into the olefacory systems of innocent people who do not deserve to experience the scent of a dead body in a vent when what they really paid for was to smell a giant Parisienne rose. That is, after all, what all other subway systems in the world smell like. Right?
In essence, it appears that a city that is situated around a river that houses the largest boats I have ever personally seen in my life does not wish to properly flush a toilet for the sake of keeping a couple of ducks disease free. At least, that is the best I can figure. Just a word, Paris; Don't take this personally, but most of your city does not smell great, despite it's wonderful appearance. Go ahead and empty these overburdended toilets somewhere besides the public transportation points and you might find that you're on to something. I know of a great landfill: it's called the sewer.
Saturday, August 22, 2009
Johnny Diesel and the Mystery of the Disappearing Fortune
Sorry for the lack of recent bloggery, not that I think anyone actually cares, but the lack of last call here in Paris has dampered my ability to successfully navigate a keyboard. I'm tired tonight, too, so tonight's post will be short but do remind me to tell you about these things:
-Johnny Diesel (The Angry Finnish Tax Evader)
-Notre Dame Cathedral (Sounds boring but it's not)
-My brain's new inclination towards French pronunciation
-The Adventure of the Disappearing Money and Our Hours in France as Destitute Americans (Or, U.S.S.A.ans, in the words of Johnny Diesel.)
-How the best see the sun rise over the Eiffel Tower
I love Paris. The food is getting better due to my new- found refusal to eat anywhere near my hotel and I am considering a life as an expatriate. I have no idea of any recent news in America. This is either good or incredibly dangerous but I never bothered to check the news about France when I was back home.
When in Rome... Take the line 6 train to the line 2 train and get off at Blanche (That's a little joke I just made that I will explain if it is important to anyone else.).
Good night, and wish me good luck.
-Johnny Diesel (The Angry Finnish Tax Evader)
-Notre Dame Cathedral (Sounds boring but it's not)
-My brain's new inclination towards French pronunciation
-The Adventure of the Disappearing Money and Our Hours in France as Destitute Americans (Or, U.S.S.A.ans, in the words of Johnny Diesel.)
-How the best see the sun rise over the Eiffel Tower
I love Paris. The food is getting better due to my new- found refusal to eat anywhere near my hotel and I am considering a life as an expatriate. I have no idea of any recent news in America. This is either good or incredibly dangerous but I never bothered to check the news about France when I was back home.
When in Rome... Take the line 6 train to the line 2 train and get off at Blanche (That's a little joke I just made that I will explain if it is important to anyone else.).
Good night, and wish me good luck.
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Today's post will not be a funny one. Sorry guys, but I have spent a great deal of energy on feeling the things that I have seen. I think that it is important to understand the culture in which you choose to immerse yourself. I have done my best and a great deal of time has gone into visiting cathedrals and basilicas. It is not just the stained glass, nor is it the concept behind these incredible works of art. It is the execution of design and the honest consideration that went into these buildings. I have been moved. I have been changed. I am a different person because of these works. I am a different person because of their purpose. I have found that my purpose in Paris is to see these fine examples of God's work here on Earth
I keep it no secret that I am a Christian. I love my God, my Savior and my religion. I understand those that do not. I understand that there are a great many questions that God refuses to answer. I understand why human beings, despite their upbringing, willingly choose to forsake a diety that opts for the inane, the inexplicable, the awful. We are wrought with a desire to consider our surrondings, our lives, our paths... our purpose. We are human, and by default, we wonder.
I no longer wonder. Paris has explained the inexplicable. I might have found the answers at home, but I found them here instead. And for that, I am grateful.
Wonder, I think, is what brought me to Paris. Wonder is why I exist. It must be. I am a person alert to the unbearable. I am a person familiar with the idea of wrought emotion. I will be honest, I wish for nothing more than the desolation that sociopaths enjoy. If I could be, I would be inconsiderate. But I have felt an overwhelming inclination to light a candle at each cathedral I visit. This candle is lit for my brother's soul.
Do I believe in Heaven? Do I believe in Hell? I do not know. I believe in Mercy, in Justice, in Peace and in Love. I believe in God. I even believe in a God that stole away my brother and with him, my very core, my very soul. I did not know it at the time of his departure, but I believed in Safety. And now, I believe that is where, if I looked, if I was brave enough to look, I would find my brother. In Safety. In Peace. And in Love. And in Justice. I believe, after today, that it is my brother who is guiding me through Paris. I believe that he has and he will be with me because I know that I took this trip for him, with him and because of him. He is with me and he always will be. It was he that broke me and it will be him that heals me.
I Love You, Cody. And I miss you. Thank you for your guidance and your typical infalibility. You are my map and my compass.
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
How Do You Say "My Feet Are Going Going To Stop Working" in French?
Fucking Hannah Montana. That bitch is everywhere. If I may be honest, I did not come to France to eat French food and experience French culture and see French stuff. I came to France to get the hell away from Hannah fucking Montana. Of course, I did not know that this is why I came to France when I left America. I only noticed that this was my intention when I kept seeing that fake blonde hair with the fake (I'm certain of it.) white teeth and the weird, slightly inbred looking face of hers everywhere. I hate Hannah Montana. Make no mistake about it, if I got the chance I would throw her in the deep end of a pool with the hope that no one ever bothered to teach her to swim.
So, I've nearly been murdered twice today. And three times yesterday. I don't know what the French laws are regarding bicylclular homicide but I'm pretty sure if I had the right information about the people that nearly killed me, I would be able to get a couple of people convicted of attempted murder. I know what you're thinking. "Pay attention, Tiffany. You're in a foreign city. You must be careful." But I am being careful. I am paying attention. I am so completely aware of my surroundings that if someone were to ask me to describe the guy who sat behind me while I had coffee today, I could tell you every detail down to whether or not his pants had a hem and pleats (Hem. No pleats.) These people are just riding around in a murderous rage, targeting innocent people. They don't even ring the bells provided on every French bicycle I've seen. They aim and hope for the worst. When people insinuated that Paris was dangerous, I had no idea they were speaking of the people on two wheels. I don't want to die. Someone has to do something about this.
While we're on the subject, I would like to note that French people are not rude. I don't know who the hell put this idea out there that they are all snooty and stuck up and unwilling to help (Well, except the people who ride bicycles. They're all assholes. But that is true in America and probably everywhere else in the universe.). I just want to clear this up. French people are nice. They are helpful. And they are, for the most part, infuriatingly well dressed. Which, I suppose is why I cannot find a single pair of comfortable shoes.
I'm very seriously considering amputating my own feet. Or at least my toes. I know what you're thinking. "You should have brought comfortable shoes, Tiffany. You're in a foreign country. Don't be an idiot." But I did bring comfortable shoes. It's just, they aren't comfortable anymore. I don't even know why God bothered putting feet on a person like me. He must have known all I was going to do was complain about them.
This morning, I went to Sacre Couer. I think that means Holy Cross. It is conveniently perched atop the most astonishingly steep hill I have ever had the displeasure of traversing in my life. Now, listen, I'm not complaining. I'm just saying. There was a tram I could have taken to make my way conveniently up the hill in one sixteenth of the time but I didn't want to do that for a couple of reasons. One, there were about 500 people wearing Birkenstocks and black socks waiting in line for the tram tickets. I did not want to deal with them and it would have been absolutely absurd for me to wait for them to thin out so I could buy own ticket. That is something a crazy person would do. Also, I did not want to miss anything. So I took the Hell Steps. These are so called (by me) because this is what they place in the seventh circle of Hell. You have to walk up these steps while all of the German people on the tram point and laugh at you. The people who receive this punishment are those that kill their own mothers or purchase impractical shoes. If you ask me, the punishment is a little severe for my taste but you live and learn, ya know? Anyway. I made it up the hill and into the basilica. And it was worth it. You can't take pictures inside because, you know, the flash would offend God and the French and I know there were some Japanese tourists in there freaking out. But I understand. Flashes are a little, um, flashy for church. And besides, it's really something you must see. Put it on your bucket list. The beauty of it literally made me cry. The other thing you're supposed to do is shut the hell up once you're inside. This is a concept most did not grasp. But it was beautiful. Beautiful and hot and loud. But worth it.
Later, I stumbled upon an even larger, more beautiful cathedral. This one was completely empty but for six or seven very quiet, very reverent people. And it was cool. I couldn't figure out why there weren't more people there and then I realized, it's not on top of an inconvenient hill. Who wants to visit a cool, quiet, elderly sanctuary of bliss if it is not a huge pain in the ass to get to? Well, besides me. Sainte Germaine, I think it's called. They have an 11:30 mass on Sunday. I am so there. That may very well be the highlight of my trip. I wish I had balls enough to take pictures of it. But I'm quite terrified of offending God. Just in case He's French.
So, I've nearly been murdered twice today. And three times yesterday. I don't know what the French laws are regarding bicylclular homicide but I'm pretty sure if I had the right information about the people that nearly killed me, I would be able to get a couple of people convicted of attempted murder. I know what you're thinking. "Pay attention, Tiffany. You're in a foreign city. You must be careful." But I am being careful. I am paying attention. I am so completely aware of my surroundings that if someone were to ask me to describe the guy who sat behind me while I had coffee today, I could tell you every detail down to whether or not his pants had a hem and pleats (Hem. No pleats.) These people are just riding around in a murderous rage, targeting innocent people. They don't even ring the bells provided on every French bicycle I've seen. They aim and hope for the worst. When people insinuated that Paris was dangerous, I had no idea they were speaking of the people on two wheels. I don't want to die. Someone has to do something about this.
While we're on the subject, I would like to note that French people are not rude. I don't know who the hell put this idea out there that they are all snooty and stuck up and unwilling to help (Well, except the people who ride bicycles. They're all assholes. But that is true in America and probably everywhere else in the universe.). I just want to clear this up. French people are nice. They are helpful. And they are, for the most part, infuriatingly well dressed. Which, I suppose is why I cannot find a single pair of comfortable shoes.
I'm very seriously considering amputating my own feet. Or at least my toes. I know what you're thinking. "You should have brought comfortable shoes, Tiffany. You're in a foreign country. Don't be an idiot." But I did bring comfortable shoes. It's just, they aren't comfortable anymore. I don't even know why God bothered putting feet on a person like me. He must have known all I was going to do was complain about them.
This morning, I went to Sacre Couer. I think that means Holy Cross. It is conveniently perched atop the most astonishingly steep hill I have ever had the displeasure of traversing in my life. Now, listen, I'm not complaining. I'm just saying. There was a tram I could have taken to make my way conveniently up the hill in one sixteenth of the time but I didn't want to do that for a couple of reasons. One, there were about 500 people wearing Birkenstocks and black socks waiting in line for the tram tickets. I did not want to deal with them and it would have been absolutely absurd for me to wait for them to thin out so I could buy own ticket. That is something a crazy person would do. Also, I did not want to miss anything. So I took the Hell Steps. These are so called (by me) because this is what they place in the seventh circle of Hell. You have to walk up these steps while all of the German people on the tram point and laugh at you. The people who receive this punishment are those that kill their own mothers or purchase impractical shoes. If you ask me, the punishment is a little severe for my taste but you live and learn, ya know? Anyway. I made it up the hill and into the basilica. And it was worth it. You can't take pictures inside because, you know, the flash would offend God and the French and I know there were some Japanese tourists in there freaking out. But I understand. Flashes are a little, um, flashy for church. And besides, it's really something you must see. Put it on your bucket list. The beauty of it literally made me cry. The other thing you're supposed to do is shut the hell up once you're inside. This is a concept most did not grasp. But it was beautiful. Beautiful and hot and loud. But worth it.
Later, I stumbled upon an even larger, more beautiful cathedral. This one was completely empty but for six or seven very quiet, very reverent people. And it was cool. I couldn't figure out why there weren't more people there and then I realized, it's not on top of an inconvenient hill. Who wants to visit a cool, quiet, elderly sanctuary of bliss if it is not a huge pain in the ass to get to? Well, besides me. Sainte Germaine, I think it's called. They have an 11:30 mass on Sunday. I am so there. That may very well be the highlight of my trip. I wish I had balls enough to take pictures of it. But I'm quite terrified of offending God. Just in case He's French.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Paris by Numbers
Against all odds and good judgement, I have made my way to Paris. I've been here for about twelve hours and I somehow managed to experience about the same number of adventures in as many hours. As I had decided to do things the "Parisian" way (It is now my understanding that a great many Parisians own vehicles, or at least bicycles, which are just as deadly. But more on that later.), my first task was to purchase my Metro ticket, which is good for five days and either cost me $50 or $1000 (I have yet to figure out the euro to dollar ratio. But more on that later.). I had been advised to pack light. So I did. Or so I thought I did. Evidently, "light" is a matter of circumstance and a concept to which I am completely unaccustomed. I had only one small suitcase, a laptop bag that weighed the same as what I imagine a baby whooly mammoth would weigh if they still existed and my adorable, not so French, Coach purse. I packed less for a trip to the fashion capital of the universe than I did for a week when I wound up wearing nothing but bikinis and sundresses (Jamaica. Food sucks. Go for the beach and eat nachos while you're there. Abanodon all hope of fine dining upon boarding your plane. Do this and you will enjoy the island.). I am a moron.
At any rate, I managed to locate and board the correct train and even remove myself from said train at the proper stop. This is where the ease ended. The directions provided to me by my very swank, incredibly tiny hotel, instructed that I would need to to "walk a little inside Gare du Nord" in order to locate my connecting Metro station, La Chapelle. What I think they meant to say was, "once you have lugged one hundred and thirty pounds of luggage up the most narrow and incredibly steep staircase in Paris, you will then find yourself lost. Turn around eight times, trying to look as inconspicuous as possible, inquire "Parlez vous l'anglais" four times, to no avail, and eventually you will decide that you are hot, tired and want to lug your suitcase, a laptop you're not even sure you want anymore and yourself up another staircase just because you sense a breeze and can smell someone else smoking a cigarette somewhere nearby. Then you have reached La Chapelle Station." And that is how I found myself at La Chapelle, a mere four or six stops away from Blanche, my destination station. This is only after I found myself, my luggage and a tiny poodle (attached to a leash manned by an octogenarian) trapped in the teeth of a turnstile that was trying, and I mean this literally, to eat me. The wonderful woman understood, despite the language barrier, that I was, in fact, a moron and instructed me to give her "le sac" (my damn purse) in order to help free me from the grips of the monster that threatened my life. I escaped and the rest of the train journey went fairly well.
So, after I settled into my room, placed my clothing on the shelves that I assume are there for the same reason that, in any other place in the world, a bureau would be, and took a four hour "nap," I decided to explore my surroundings. And get a sandwich. I found a lovely little bistro at the corner of Rue Lepic and I don't know where and ordered a glass of chardonay and a Croque Monsuier. Which happened to be the size of my head(the sandwich, not the wine). At some point, about an hour into the sandwich and a glass and a half of wine later, a lovely elderly Frenchman and an adorable mutt that appeared to be a cross between a Corgi and something distantly related to Chewbaca approached me with the request that I share a cigarette. This gentleman happened to notice that I smoked some bizarre kind of cigarette that they don't have access to in France and wanted to give it a try. Aside from his insistance that white wine was deez-gust-eeng, he was a wealth of information and very friendly, besides. He informed me that he had no idea that I was not a Parisienne and that, if he had known, he might have asked me to his studio to paint me. Apparently, he's a painter. Apparently, French women melt at the insinuation of being painted. I don't believe any of this for a minute. Anyway, he gave me a peach. I'm not going to eat it because I think it might be like the apple that Snow White gets that turns her into a dwarf or whatever, but it's really lovely and it smells nice.
Sunday, August 16, 2009
The Day Before the First Day of the Rest of My Life
Several months ago, I decided to quit my perfectly good job in one of the worst economic situations since before my birth to apply to culinary school. This is not an uncommon story... Girl hates job, girl knows she's bound for culinary greatness, girl quits job, girl hopes for best... What is uncommon about my situation is that it is about me. Me, the person who generally plans her weekends a month in advance and has selected an outfit at least three days beforehand. Me, the person with a steady paycheck and nice shoes to prove it. I guess that this also about the me that decided a week ago to go to France after one too many Belinis and the me that just popped a Xanax in order to prepare for tomorrow's seven hundred hour flight to Paris. It's just, I only recently discovered that version of me.
Let's get a few things straight... (1) I am uncomfortable with the idea of taking risks. It gives me the same feeling that one thousand brown recluse spiders and one copperhead snake would give you if you found them in your bed. (2) I don't like to fly. See above regarding feelings of snakes and spiders. (3) I'm a planner. I like to plan. Having no plan makes me feel similarly to above snake/spider situation. You get the idea. I'm boring. I do not like risk. I appreciate mutual funds because they're safe. I also don't like children. But that has nothing to do with what we're talking about here, so moving on...
So, this whole taking a solo trip to Paris on a week's notice is a bit out of character. However, considering I will be going to school that teaches the art of classic French cuisine, there is a grain of reason in it. Plus, I'll only be solo for four days. My boyfriend is going to joining me for the weekend. So yeah. I'd really like it if you'd join me for my adventure. First, we'll go to France for the next week. I'll eat a lot of great food that I will then describe in the most graphic detail that I can so that you will be so jealous that you want to be me. Then, I'll keep you updated on the progress of my dire student loan situation, culinary triumphs and let downs and once school starts, I'll tell you all about the egomanical, emotionally stunted people I imagine I will be in school with.
Check back this week to follow me on my little Parisian adventure. I will periodically update my blog, facebook and, if I remember, my twitter.
This oughta be good.
Let's get a few things straight... (1) I am uncomfortable with the idea of taking risks. It gives me the same feeling that one thousand brown recluse spiders and one copperhead snake would give you if you found them in your bed. (2) I don't like to fly. See above regarding feelings of snakes and spiders. (3) I'm a planner. I like to plan. Having no plan makes me feel similarly to above snake/spider situation. You get the idea. I'm boring. I do not like risk. I appreciate mutual funds because they're safe. I also don't like children. But that has nothing to do with what we're talking about here, so moving on...
So, this whole taking a solo trip to Paris on a week's notice is a bit out of character. However, considering I will be going to school that teaches the art of classic French cuisine, there is a grain of reason in it. Plus, I'll only be solo for four days. My boyfriend is going to joining me for the weekend. So yeah. I'd really like it if you'd join me for my adventure. First, we'll go to France for the next week. I'll eat a lot of great food that I will then describe in the most graphic detail that I can so that you will be so jealous that you want to be me. Then, I'll keep you updated on the progress of my dire student loan situation, culinary triumphs and let downs and once school starts, I'll tell you all about the egomanical, emotionally stunted people I imagine I will be in school with.
Check back this week to follow me on my little Parisian adventure. I will periodically update my blog, facebook and, if I remember, my twitter.
This oughta be good.
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