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.
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