An Uncomfortable Warm Feeling

So I was waiting for my car to get fixed late this afternoon and perusing the Washington Post, enjoying one of the reasons I love Washington. Seriously, the Post is one of the best things, ever. I flipped the page and there was this whole section of attractive military guys, sort of like a year book.

I had been trying to decide which one was the hottest for about five minutes when I realized that I was looking at all the service people who died this fall.

Uhhhhhhhhhhh...

Sorry about that.

Shopping For Meaning

I am at an outlet mall. I am a student now, living off the student monies, so it's an exercise in unfulfilled wants.

Cruel But Fair.

I would like to just be totally cruel and punishing for a moment. My friend DC Katastrophe and I drove out into darkest Virginia yesterday to rape and pillage the Target. I needed to cut the cord on my computer so that I could surf the net while eating, watching TV, or, lord yes, even using the john. God I love technology.

Ms. Katastrophe had regaled me with war stories of the difficulties of setting up this wireless router. I would be calling Verizon. I would be calling the manufacturer. I would be calling India. I would be plugging and unplugging alot of things.

As I unpacked the box, I must admit, I felt a certain trepidation. There was an awful lot of documentation. There were many phone numbers supplied to assist me in reaching the people that understood the magic that is this wireless router. There were bright red stickers that told me to not plug in this son of electronic-Beelzebub until specifically instructed to do so, lest my files become corrupted, my internet become severed, and all my days be spent in the desert of no youtube or flickr.

All that sweat on my brow was for not, as my installation consisted of the following steps:

1) plug in router.
2) plug in internet to router.
3) select name for network.
4) choose password (this took me the longest of all- i never do a good job choosing passwords, and then ten minutes later I can't remember what they are and I have to "recover" them using a baseball bat and my visa card.)
5) use internet.

That was it. So, to be cruel but fair, I must be the smartest man in the entire universe. Take that, world.

The Trials of Being Useless

I've gotten used to being a competent adult. I can drive a car. I can manage a bank account. I buy plane tickets, go to Target, pay taxes, hold a passport, send birthday cards (ok, well, I don't really do that. Everyone has limits). I was able to apply for and be accepted to culinary school. A French culinary school, to be exact. However, time is proving one uncomfortable truth: I cannot cook French food. Not even close.

There is a magic alchemy of butter, salt, pepper, and leeks that eludes me. It must be very salty. It must be very buttery. The leeks must melt into everything else. It must not taste of pepper. What is my natural style? Well, it appears that I cook unsalty, peppery leeks that are not melting. I still like everything to be very buttery. I'm only human. On Tuesday Chef told our team that the bordelaise sauce we were making was “...shit, and you have ruined the meal. Is this what you meant to do? Ruin my beautiful potatoes. You have ruined my potatoes.” Then he did that Gallic thing where somehow his eyebrows go up and down at the same time, and then he smiled a little bit and his shoulders rose up, and then fell again, and he waggled his hands around, indicating, I am assuming, that the potatoes were sad to have been ruined.

I understand that critiquing our food is what we are paying for, and I also know that he is not being personal, but it does start to wear a little bit on the psyche. The only time I have made something that he loved I left out an entire major ingredient. I forgot the butter, which, as far as I can gather, is the French equivalent of being a pedophile. I sort of kept that to myself, but as good as it felt to know that he thought that my lemon tart was the most delicious, it was kind of deflating to realize that I hadn't REALLY made what I was supposed to make.

This next Friday we have our first written exam, followed by a practical exam. Maybe I won't add butter to anything that I make just to see what happens.

A lot of hand waggling is my guess, followed by my immediate execution. Sigh.

More butter? Yes, please!

Normal butter usage at the Shiftless Badger household? ½ lb per week.

Culinary school butter usage at the SB household? 2 lbs per week.

That's right. A fourfold increase. Hello heart attack! I guess, really, I will just have to avoid a heart attack by flushing my system with red wine. It's a sacrifice I am willing to make. What? The gym you say?

WHHHHHAHAHHAHAHAHAHHAHAAAAahahshasdhhshahahaha! OMG, have we met?

SALT. ADD MORE SALT.

I have never ever had as much salt in my food as I have here at L'School. Some days I will add three or four times what I would normally use. Chef tastes it and says “Non. Is bland. More salt.”.

And that's when my pan of sauce implodes because the sauce reached a critical mass, imploded, and became a black hole. Stupid sauce. Just take more salt. You're making me look bad.

This appears to be just the right amount of salt for the French.

Day One and Two

Starting school has been a whirlwind. I will summarize, as I am sure that you, dear reader, do not want to hear about every single thing that happened. I realized this when trying to tell someone about my first day and their eyes glazed over and then they lost consciousness and fell down a flight of stairs. I, if nothing else, learn from maiming people who are close to me.

Our class is big- 23 people. Our teacher, two Michelin star Chef G, has promised that there will be only twenty of us by the time this first term is over. Which, on the first day, is news that is terrifying when delivered by a balding and slightly crazy looking French man. I wasn't worried. I'm smart. I can arrive on time. I can take notes. I was sure I would be fine, until today. We began our knife skills practice.

I. Suck. At. Cutting.

Oh, humble pie, you are not sweet.

Give me a big ol' chef's knife and a Frenchman staring me down and all the sudden the onions in my hands some how separate themselves into crazy, unwieldy, uneven piles of slices. I performed what I would call a ch-ice. It's a cross between a chop and a dice, and it is none the prettier for being from two worlds. An unclassically trained observer might called it “mashed-up onion”, or possibly just “butchered onion”. Bleeding to death quietly, my onion sat in a sad pile and stared reproachfully at me as Chef G suggested I quit holding the knife “like your girlfriend holds it”.

More tomorrow.

Run food! Run from me! I will cook you in my magic cooking dress!!

Bits and Pieces:

We have six hundred pounds of reference books, including a tomb called the North American Meat Buyer's Guide which is full of delicious animals I will eat.

Cooks wear way to much clothing. My daily uniform: ridiculously loose and wildly patterned pants, designed by MC Hammer, clogs that even the Dutch would be wary of claiming as their own, an undershirt, a cotton-poly blend chef's coat that has the twin virtues of being both hot AND non-flame resistant, a kerchief (that's right- tied in a Windsor knot), and, to complete this heat-retaining outfit, a four foot long apron.

The State of Maryland required us to take an examination today that certifies that we read and write at an eighth grade level. I'm not sure everyone in my class passed.

I love this so, so much already. Gimme more, gimme it now.

Quebec Photos, Plus-Bonus extras!

These are my peeps doing birthday things, London-style. London, Ontario that is! Represent zoo animal part hats! Happy Second Birthday, Dorein!

Did anyone mention that I am gay? Well, if not I am sure that everyone found out when I spend a whole day crafting an Elmo cake. Hurray!


Quebec's trees even dress better than ours here in the District of Colombia.


This sandwich, smoked samlon and tomato on olive bread, would cause Cosi to explode into a supernova of failure. It cost $1.75 and is the best sandwich I have eaten if four years. A woman named Chloe or some other ridiculous French name made it , and she called me mon cheri.


OH MY GOD THE CHEESE. The reason the rest of Canada couldn't let Quebec separate is because they are hooked on this cheese, the crack of the Quebecqois. I don't blame them. I envy their addiction.


Looks like the Pope used to kick it here too. Good for him.


I'm sorry, do you not live on a ski mountian? Oh, what a pity. I don't either, but I did get to for three days and it was fantastic. I pretended it was all mine, and when it was taken from me, I vowed revenge. I was also kind of lonely, ne pas?


Even the bridges are ridiculously photogenic. Really, I am telling you, I have found where I will emigrate to. I will live under this bridge in a box. And eat fish from the river. And enjoy nine months of winter.


MY NIECE! She has gotten so cute, and also ornery, which means practical jokes will abound soon.

At Last! It Begins!

I have a bunch of photos of Quebec to upload and some of my neice who I went to see last weekend, but I am not at all in the mood right now. Soon. I promise. Tomorrow I start culinary school and I am excited! Too excited... sort of levitating above the floor right now. It's such a good/vomit-inducing feeling. Hurray!