Intermediate week ten was really nothing to write home about. All cuisine practicums were finished and only one pastry practicum remained. Monday's pastry demonstration focused on the delightful world of bread-making--baguettes, French white bread, and fogaccia--and on Tuesday we made the baguettes and white bread in practicum. Rumor has it that Le Cordon Bleu has been tossing around the idea of starting a boulangerie program for several years now but they can't make it happen until they have a larger facility with a dedicated bread-making kitchen (we have only one dedicated pastry kitchen and one that is shared with cuisine... Don't get me started on the hygiene problems with the latter). It did turn out to be one of my favorite practicums, though, and the class was in a festive ready-to-be-finished mood.
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| White bread (bottom); Fogaccia (middle); Baguettes (top left); ?? (top right) |
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| White bread and baguettes galore--I still have some in my freezer; It's hard to look fierce in the pastry kitchen but I tried |
Tuesday also included the final cuisine demonstration, better known as the demonstration where students with enough absences remaining skip class because it wouldn't have an associated practicum. Although I was there I remember very little about it--the photos are my only record of what happened, and I can't even remember how to label them. Wednesday contained only the final pastry demonstration on the Napoleon or mille-feuille (literally, "a thousand leaves") dessert. At the end of class we had almost 48 hours to prepare for our final exam in pastry, and I dutifully holed myself up in my studio until Friday morning studying recipes and drawing chocolate borders and the word Opéra.
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| Last cuisine demonstration--shellfish, some sort of beef, and a blackberry dessert is my best guess |
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| Mille-feuille, so named because of the three layers of puff pastry |
Friday's final pastry exam began promptly at 8:30 AM. As with the basic exam, the chef had selected two of the ten recipes from the final exam list for our class, and we drew a green or yellow chip from a cup that would determine which of the two recipes we would be making. My favorite pastry chef, Chef Tranchant, met us at the door which almost made me collapse with relief and joy. Things only got better when I drew a green chip which corresponded to the Fraisier, the strawberry layer cake that was probably one of the easiest of the ten--certainly easier than the dreaded Opéra or Bavarois that I had spent much of the past 48 hours praying that I would not get. Although it wasn't my best performance ever, I finished in good time without any catastrophic errors and walked/skipped away feeling entirely confident that I had passed.
A good three days remained to study for the cuisine final exam, but I had also made plans to sneak back to Greenville the morning after and surprise my parents by arriving a week earlier than they expected. Even with some last-minute souvenir shopping and packing I was able to give myself ample study time, though, and by Monday morning my confidence was high. Only one recipe, the stuffed rabbit legs, gave me cause for concern because I knew the difficulty of finishing in under two-and-a-half hours, but I felt up the challenge. Unlike pastry, none of the cuisine chefs gave me cause for concern either.
The Intermediate cuisine exams were different from the basic in that we were divided into groups of two and each group would enter the exam at ten-minute intervals rather than all at once. A classmate Paul and I were in the second group scheduled for 8:40 AM, but I still arrived at school around 8:00 AM where some other classmates greeted me with, "We've got Chef Bogen." My initial response was to laugh--another student had told me that Bogen was dismissed two months ago after a "sick leave" that we all suspected was actually rehab, Surely they were pulling my leg... because that would be a really good gag. Nobody else was laughing, though, and someone explained that the school had a shortage of chefs for the exams. Nonetheless, I kept telling myself that they must be mistaken as I walked to the door of the exam kitchen . We stood outside mumbling things like, "Please give me the lamb" (the easiest dish by far) until none other than Chef Bogen poked his head out of the door and summoned the first two students.
From the hallway I could hear the coveted lamb recipe going to one student the duck going to another. Our chant quickly changed to, "Not the rabbit. Not the rabbit," until our summons came. Much to my relief Paul drew the rabbit (he's one of the best students in the class so I didn't feel too sorry for him) and I drew the stuffed red mullet with parsley sauce and a sweet onion flan. While not my first choice it was probably in the top five for me, and Bogen seemed to be in a mellow mood as far as I could tell. Checking my basket of ingredients and noting down anything that was missing (I needed chicken stock and ramekins for the flan), I went straight to work.
Everything seemed to be going well for the first almost two hours--I had developed good rhythm, I felt organized, and my time looked okay. My recipe required the use of both the food processor and the blender which meant that I had to time myself in such a way that I wasn't running into the couple of other students who also needed them for their recipes, but even that felt coordinated. The first issue arose when it came time to prepare the fish for baking. Up to this point Bogen had been fairly unobtrusive as the exam chefs are supposed to be--unlike in our practicums their role is simply to observe our performance, stepping in only if we're causing a catastrophe. As in the demonstration and practicum, I arranged parchment paper in a pan, stuffed my fish and set them on top, and then wrapped them in oiled tinfoil.
Bogen suddenly appeared at my side and began a lengthy demonstration of how each fish should be on his own piece of paper for easier movement in and out of the pan without damage. I could move the fish fine with a wide spatula, but rather than argue the point I did as he said. Then he told me to unwrap my fish from the foil and add a strip of oiled parchment paper first to prevent sticking. I knew that it wouldn't stick because it worked fine in class, but he was insistent. I began to feel myself tensing up but again did as he said. Then, before I could put the fish in the oven he told me to bake them on a flat surface rather than in my prepared pan so that I could slide them off easily. I stared at him a moment before calmly asking through clenched teeth, "What flat surface?" He said, "A baking sheet!" The only problem was that we didn't have any baking sheets in the classroom that fit into the individual ovens--they were all too large--so he instructed me to go to the classroom next door and find one.
The fish finally went into the oven and I had about 17 minutes to tidy up and make my Hollandaise sauce for the technical portion of the exam. The tapenade for the stuffing came out really nicely but the recipe made more than I needed, so rather than throwing the excess in the trash I made the mistake of asking Bogen if he wanted me to keep it for anything. He replied, "Weigh out how much extra you made, write it on the recipe, then throw the rest away." Confused, I repeated it back to him just to make sure that I understood, wondering if he was going to take points off for waste. It was unprecedented--students all around me were throwing out food if it exceeded the minimum that they needed for the presentation. I did it as quickly as possible and moved onto the sauce. (Incidentally, he never remembered that he asked me to do that and I threw the recipe out after the exam.)
The night before the exam I had practiced making the Hollandaise sauce at home but my limited facilities and equipment didn't give me the best results. This time, however, it turned out beautifully. The finishing herbs were already chopped and set aside, ready to go in, and all I had left to do was strain the sauce. In the middle of straining it, though, Bogen again appeared beside me and said, "I need you to stop what you're doing and plate your presentation or you're going to be late." Holding the strainer I asked, "Stop right now?" "Yes, put that down and plate your dish!" I set the strainer handle down which in turn caused thee bowl beneath it to flip on its side, sending my beautiful Hollandaise sauce down the front of my jacket and apron and onto my shoes and the floor. Throwing his hands in the air, Bogen shouted, "Look what you did now! You need to calm down--you're getting nervous and making mistakes! Clean that up." He handed me paper towels as I got down and quickly mopped up the floor. Fortunately, about half of the sauce still remained in the bowl--enough for the tasting, at least.
By now I had only about four minutes remaining, so pulled out the presentation platter and prepared to arrange the fish and flans on it. A piece of paper with the number four on it was taped to the platter and I unthinkingly pulled it off and tossed it into my scrap bowl as I wiped the platter surface clean. Bogen had earlier mentioned sliding the fish directly from the baking tray onto the platter, but I knew that couldn't be right--we were never to plate directly because the juices from the fish would create puddles. I moved the first fish onto a paper towel to drain and had it positioned just above the tray when Bogen popped up once more, yelling, "What did I tell you to do? You're going to break the fish! Move it directly to the platter! Set it down!" Another rule of fish is that it always should be served with the head to the left, but as I began to rotate it into position he again yelled, "Set it down now!" It went down at an awkward angle, the tail becoming detached, and Bogen said, "See, what did I tell you? And what happened to your number?"
Remembering the number taped to the platter, I pulled it out of the scrap bowl and taped it back to the side, apologizing that I didn't realize it needed to stay on. "Oh great," Bogen said, "Now you tape trash to your platter. Calm down because you keep making mistakes! And why are you plating on a cold surface?" It was another curve-ball--we would plate on hot dishes but always on the counter, yet he apparently wanted me to plate near the stove. The platter appeared to be made of plastic and the only available space near my stove was directly on still-hot burners because the class assistant had already taken over half of my stove to begin preparations for the next exam. The baking tray with the fish was sitting on the space between me and my neighbor's stove, so putting down some bowls over the burners I precariously balanced the platter on top. The assistant, Bogen, and I squeezed around my stove as I plated the second fish, this time sliding it directly from the baking tray to the platter as he directed. He pointed to the puddle of juices that it created, saying, "You need to clean that up." As I took a paper towel and began dabbing at the puddle he hollered, "Stop touching the fish! You're breaking it more! Calm down!"
Remembering the number taped to the platter, I pulled it out of the scrap bowl and taped it back to the side, apologizing that I didn't realize it needed to stay on. "Oh great," Bogen said, "Now you tape trash to your platter. Calm down because you keep making mistakes! And why are you plating on a cold surface?" It was another curve-ball--we would plate on hot dishes but always on the counter, yet he apparently wanted me to plate near the stove. The platter appeared to be made of plastic and the only available space near my stove was directly on still-hot burners because the class assistant had already taken over half of my stove to begin preparations for the next exam. The baking tray with the fish was sitting on the space between me and my neighbor's stove, so putting down some bowls over the burners I precariously balanced the platter on top. The assistant, Bogen, and I squeezed around my stove as I plated the second fish, this time sliding it directly from the baking tray to the platter as he directed. He pointed to the puddle of juices that it created, saying, "You need to clean that up." As I took a paper towel and began dabbing at the puddle he hollered, "Stop touching the fish! You're breaking it more! Calm down!"
After more chaotic plating with Bogen yelling over my shoulder the whole time, I mercifully got everything on the platter. Pen poised over his grading pad, Bogen said, "If you're finished I'll put you down as being only six minutes late. If you want me to taste your Hollandaise sauce I'll restart the clock and you'll be more late." I stammered in confusion, "You mean you're not going to grade my sauce? Which is a better option?" Angrily, he said, "Are you finished plating?" "Yes," I replied. "Then you get a zero on the sauce. You're finished." My mind still not registering, I held up the sauce and said, "So you don't want to taste it?" "Throw it away! We're done!" he yelled. And just like that I received a zero on the technical portion of my exam which, as I would later discover, was 10% of the grade along with a deduction of 12 percentage points for being late. I didn't even want to know what the judges would think about my mangled presentation platter or how Bogen would mark my organization. My only consolation was that I knew that the food tasted good.
Marching to the other end of the kitchen, I poured my sauce into the trash can and put the bowl into the dishwashing sink, not realizing that there was a "clean" and "dirty" side and inadvertently choosing the clean side. The dishwasher gave a, "Hey!" and I quickly apologized and pulled the bowl out, moving it over to the dirty side. Bogen, like some magical apparition, once more stood in front of me and said, "Now you're messing up the dishwashers. Why don't you go out in the hall for five or ten minutes and just breathe." I'm not a violent person--I may talk big but I've never physically injured anyone (all childhood incidences between me and my siblings expunged)--but that was probably the closest that I ever came to wanting to punch somebody in the face. Given Bogen's height and my lackluster punching skills I was sure that it would not be very effective, so instead I moved to the hallway and considered items that I might be able to throw. After about 30 seconds, though, I got bored and reentered the classroom to clean up my work area.
Bogen was occupied with tormenting a student from the last group who was making the Provençal fish bouillabaisse and had reached her final ten minutes. He was hollering, "Bouille... base! Bouille... base!" while making a downward pressing motion motion with his hand each time he said, "base." The poor student (who wasn't normally in our group and who, from that day forward, would simply be referred to by the rest of us as "Bouillabaisse Girl") had a stupefied look on her face as the chef turned to the class and yelled, "Somebody explain to her what I'm trying to say." The rest of us only stared in awkward silence before going back to our cleaning.
Two students proceeded directly to student services to file a complaint against the chef while I trudged to my locker amid a flurry of classmates exclaiming varying forms of "What just happened?" Aside from Bouillabaisse Girl, my only knowledge of what happened to other students during the exam came from their heated murmurings down the staircase. I was fairly certain that I would be retaking Intermediate Cuisine but still felt more angry than concerned. Emptying out my locker and heading for the door, one of the two students passed by me, whispering, "We complained on your behalf, too." Oh great--now Bogen would think that I had made the complaint and haunt me all through my second run of Intermediate. When I got back to my studio I threw myself on the couch and spent a good half-hour or so just staring in silence at the ceiling, trying mentally to process the last three hours.
The morning's events had somewhat dampened my excitement over the prospect of going home, but eventually I was up and packing and soon my spirits began to revive. My flight was scheduled for 9:25 AM Tuesday morning and my plan was to head out the door and get onto the metro no later than 6:30 AM. My bags would be fully loaded--in September United had reduced the number of free check-in bags from two to one and the maximum weight from 70 to 50 pounds for buddy-pass fliers, plus I had accumulated a number of items from school, meaning that in the spring or summer when I made my final trip home, if I wanted to take back everything then I would have to take back as much as I could get rid of now. Loading two checked bags up to 50 pounds, a backpack to about 25 pounds, and a shoulder bag with anything else that would fit, I finally went to bed sometime after midnight only to awake two hours later with the pre-flight/rough prior day jitters. Getting up, I cleaned the studio and piddled around the apartment until about 6:20. Remembering to take the trash out before I went, I pulled the bag from the kitchen container and discovered a small leak that had left a giant pool of clarified butter (from my futile Hollandaise sauce practice) in the bottom of the trash can and all over the kitchen floor.
After the cleanup of that mess I had considerably less time remaining to get to the airport than originally intended, and in my calculations I did not properly factor in how much extra time hauling some 125+ pounds of luggage through three metro changes would take, either. For one thing, metro turnstiles are about half-an-inch smaller than the standard suitcase width, and one click of the turnstile will get one human with one bag through if carefully planned with little hope for the other suitcase. Nobody was working at the window that time of morning, either, so in a rare moment of forward-thinking I went down on all fours and managed to shove both suitcases ahead of me underneath the turnstile and out the other side. Managing stairs was also a challenge as was pulling both suitcases into the train doors, but the most terrifying moment came at the final RER train station where I had to get on a long, narrow escalator going up. I made about three attempts, backing out at the last second each time and allowing other passengers to go ahead of me until a kindly woman offered to take one of the suitcases up for me, possibly saving my life and the lives of anyone riding behind me.
Actually, there were several acts of kindness that morning that warmed my heart a bit towards these crazy Parisians (although they might all have been tourists) and showed me that God was still keeping an eye on me even when I was being a stubborn cheapskate who refused simply to hire a cab. On my first train when I struggled aboard looking a good bit bedraggled, a group of young men were casting glances my way and apparently talking about me. When they got up to leave one stop before mine, one of them said (in French), "You look very tired. Have a good day," and gave me a pat on the arm. At the next stop when I got off and attempted my first haul up a large set of stairs, a man behind me picked up the bottoms of my suitcases and helped me carry them to the top. On the second turnstile attempt at the RER station, a man that had already gone through handed his things to his wife and came back to pull my suitcases through for me just as I was ready to attempt the shove technique again. And at the top of the escalator between the two train platforms as I looked at the signs to see which one I needed, a man pointed to my right and said, "Charles de Gaulle is that one." Both the flight to Newark and the flight to Greenville were only about half full, too, ensuring me a seat and a little extra space.
Standing in the customs line in Newark, tears welled up in my eyes as I saw the little American flags strapped to the top of each booth, and again as I sat at my departure gate for GSP and heard the southern accents all around me. The realization that these were "my people" became even stronger as a couple of Clemson frat boys sat opposite me in their bright orange shirts with the white tiger paw and matching duffle bags. Arriving at GSP a few minutes earlier than scheduled around 4:00 PM, I stood outside the baggage claim, soaking in the afternoon sun surrounded by grass and maple trees and noticing that the fall colors decided to hang around a little longer just for me. My sister soon drove up with all six of her kids in the car and I got seven of the best hugs I had had in over five months. We went straight to Mutt's BBQ where I successfully surprised both my mom and dad and reunited with my brother and his wife and four kids. Hugging isn't as overrated as I used to think. Southern barbecue is also something that one should never take for granted.
The next few days were filled with seeing friends and family, driving to the mountains, filling up on fall, and seeing my church family. One of the greatest blessings of this vacation, though, was that my old boss graciously agreed to let me return to work for six weeks, actually putting me back on my previous salary. One of my concerns while in Paris as my bank account quickly dwindled was that a trip home would be more expensive than just staying put--not just the cost of the flight, but eating out, gas money, and dozens of other little extras along the way unless I planned on mooching off of friends and family for the next two months. Then just like that I once again had a good, steady paycheck--something I hadn't planned on getting until at least this spring or summer.
Not only did the work cover the expenses of going home, but it filled up my bank account with enough money to ensure that I will have plenty to live on should I get one or both internships. God had once again worked everything out perfectly beyond my limited scheming--the idea only took root in my brain after a former coworker emailed me on my birthday and I joked that maybe the office would need me over vacation--up to that point I was only hoping that maybe I could at best find some part-time work somewhere for minimum wage. His response was, "Seriously--you should ask." People offered me sympathy because I would be would be working over vacation, but it was one of the best things that could have happened. As an extra bonus, we had several days of amazing weather and I spent many a lunch hour just meandering through our beautiful downtown.
Of course, I still found time to hit all of my favorite nearby locations such as Dollywood in Pigeon Forge and the Biltmore Estate in Asheville, and I bought season passes to both places with the full confidence that I would be returning many times within the next year. Having the season passes is sort of like a security blanket--a little reminder that when this semester has its challenges (because it will) or I'm feeling particularly homesick (because I will) that I can say, "This too shall pass."
Returning to Paris was actually a little harder this time around. The honeymoon phase ended long ago and we had quickly become something of a bickering married couple, so that initial excitement with all of its romantic notions wasn't traveling with me this time. I could even feel myself getting testier in the days before my departure (I'm sure those around me felt it even more), and when my sister's family drove up to the house to say their goodbyes just as we were loading up to the head to the airport, I began to feel almost despondent. I couldn't even attempt to speak as we unloaded the car in front of the airport and I gave my parents one last hug.
At this point you're probably wondering if I regret my decision to pursue this path in life. It was a question I asked myself many times over the last couple of months as well as I would stealthily drive by my old house or spend time with the people that I love or see that deposit in my bank account every two weeks or look at photos of my dog romping around in Indiana. But another blessing of returning to my old job was that it reminded me that although it's a great place to work, it's not what I want to do for the rest of my life. Things may be forever changed and this may be the hardest next few months of my life, but it's all for a purpose--for something better. Jeremiah 29:11 says, "'For I know the plans I have for you,' declares the Lord, 'plans for welfare and not for evil, to give you a future and a hope.'" It's that promise of a "future and a hope" to which I'm clinging, and there's nobody better to be in control of it than the Lord.
Getting back to school also helped reinforce my motivation to finish. Written confirmation that I passed both Intermediate Pastry and Cuisine was a definite boost to my spirits, even though the latter I achieved by less than seven points on my exam (I needed 50% to pass and squeaked by with 56.5%, but I did make 77.2% on the pastry exam--much better than the 52.7% last semester). Some of the old excitement is building back up as I leaf through the Superior recipe books and peruse the schedule, and being the equivalent of the "Senior class" at school is a pretty special feeling. I've refreshed my goal once again to "be the best" rather than "just survive and pass," a short-lived idea no doubt but always a good way to start the semester.
Marching to the other end of the kitchen, I poured my sauce into the trash can and put the bowl into the dishwashing sink, not realizing that there was a "clean" and "dirty" side and inadvertently choosing the clean side. The dishwasher gave a, "Hey!" and I quickly apologized and pulled the bowl out, moving it over to the dirty side. Bogen, like some magical apparition, once more stood in front of me and said, "Now you're messing up the dishwashers. Why don't you go out in the hall for five or ten minutes and just breathe." I'm not a violent person--I may talk big but I've never physically injured anyone (all childhood incidences between me and my siblings expunged)--but that was probably the closest that I ever came to wanting to punch somebody in the face. Given Bogen's height and my lackluster punching skills I was sure that it would not be very effective, so instead I moved to the hallway and considered items that I might be able to throw. After about 30 seconds, though, I got bored and reentered the classroom to clean up my work area.
Bogen was occupied with tormenting a student from the last group who was making the Provençal fish bouillabaisse and had reached her final ten minutes. He was hollering, "Bouille... base! Bouille... base!" while making a downward pressing motion motion with his hand each time he said, "base." The poor student (who wasn't normally in our group and who, from that day forward, would simply be referred to by the rest of us as "Bouillabaisse Girl") had a stupefied look on her face as the chef turned to the class and yelled, "Somebody explain to her what I'm trying to say." The rest of us only stared in awkward silence before going back to our cleaning.
Two students proceeded directly to student services to file a complaint against the chef while I trudged to my locker amid a flurry of classmates exclaiming varying forms of "What just happened?" Aside from Bouillabaisse Girl, my only knowledge of what happened to other students during the exam came from their heated murmurings down the staircase. I was fairly certain that I would be retaking Intermediate Cuisine but still felt more angry than concerned. Emptying out my locker and heading for the door, one of the two students passed by me, whispering, "We complained on your behalf, too." Oh great--now Bogen would think that I had made the complaint and haunt me all through my second run of Intermediate. When I got back to my studio I threw myself on the couch and spent a good half-hour or so just staring in silence at the ceiling, trying mentally to process the last three hours.
The morning's events had somewhat dampened my excitement over the prospect of going home, but eventually I was up and packing and soon my spirits began to revive. My flight was scheduled for 9:25 AM Tuesday morning and my plan was to head out the door and get onto the metro no later than 6:30 AM. My bags would be fully loaded--in September United had reduced the number of free check-in bags from two to one and the maximum weight from 70 to 50 pounds for buddy-pass fliers, plus I had accumulated a number of items from school, meaning that in the spring or summer when I made my final trip home, if I wanted to take back everything then I would have to take back as much as I could get rid of now. Loading two checked bags up to 50 pounds, a backpack to about 25 pounds, and a shoulder bag with anything else that would fit, I finally went to bed sometime after midnight only to awake two hours later with the pre-flight/rough prior day jitters. Getting up, I cleaned the studio and piddled around the apartment until about 6:20. Remembering to take the trash out before I went, I pulled the bag from the kitchen container and discovered a small leak that had left a giant pool of clarified butter (from my futile Hollandaise sauce practice) in the bottom of the trash can and all over the kitchen floor.
After the cleanup of that mess I had considerably less time remaining to get to the airport than originally intended, and in my calculations I did not properly factor in how much extra time hauling some 125+ pounds of luggage through three metro changes would take, either. For one thing, metro turnstiles are about half-an-inch smaller than the standard suitcase width, and one click of the turnstile will get one human with one bag through if carefully planned with little hope for the other suitcase. Nobody was working at the window that time of morning, either, so in a rare moment of forward-thinking I went down on all fours and managed to shove both suitcases ahead of me underneath the turnstile and out the other side. Managing stairs was also a challenge as was pulling both suitcases into the train doors, but the most terrifying moment came at the final RER train station where I had to get on a long, narrow escalator going up. I made about three attempts, backing out at the last second each time and allowing other passengers to go ahead of me until a kindly woman offered to take one of the suitcases up for me, possibly saving my life and the lives of anyone riding behind me.
Actually, there were several acts of kindness that morning that warmed my heart a bit towards these crazy Parisians (although they might all have been tourists) and showed me that God was still keeping an eye on me even when I was being a stubborn cheapskate who refused simply to hire a cab. On my first train when I struggled aboard looking a good bit bedraggled, a group of young men were casting glances my way and apparently talking about me. When they got up to leave one stop before mine, one of them said (in French), "You look very tired. Have a good day," and gave me a pat on the arm. At the next stop when I got off and attempted my first haul up a large set of stairs, a man behind me picked up the bottoms of my suitcases and helped me carry them to the top. On the second turnstile attempt at the RER station, a man that had already gone through handed his things to his wife and came back to pull my suitcases through for me just as I was ready to attempt the shove technique again. And at the top of the escalator between the two train platforms as I looked at the signs to see which one I needed, a man pointed to my right and said, "Charles de Gaulle is that one." Both the flight to Newark and the flight to Greenville were only about half full, too, ensuring me a seat and a little extra space.
Standing in the customs line in Newark, tears welled up in my eyes as I saw the little American flags strapped to the top of each booth, and again as I sat at my departure gate for GSP and heard the southern accents all around me. The realization that these were "my people" became even stronger as a couple of Clemson frat boys sat opposite me in their bright orange shirts with the white tiger paw and matching duffle bags. Arriving at GSP a few minutes earlier than scheduled around 4:00 PM, I stood outside the baggage claim, soaking in the afternoon sun surrounded by grass and maple trees and noticing that the fall colors decided to hang around a little longer just for me. My sister soon drove up with all six of her kids in the car and I got seven of the best hugs I had had in over five months. We went straight to Mutt's BBQ where I successfully surprised both my mom and dad and reunited with my brother and his wife and four kids. Hugging isn't as overrated as I used to think. Southern barbecue is also something that one should never take for granted.
The next few days were filled with seeing friends and family, driving to the mountains, filling up on fall, and seeing my church family. One of the greatest blessings of this vacation, though, was that my old boss graciously agreed to let me return to work for six weeks, actually putting me back on my previous salary. One of my concerns while in Paris as my bank account quickly dwindled was that a trip home would be more expensive than just staying put--not just the cost of the flight, but eating out, gas money, and dozens of other little extras along the way unless I planned on mooching off of friends and family for the next two months. Then just like that I once again had a good, steady paycheck--something I hadn't planned on getting until at least this spring or summer.
Not only did the work cover the expenses of going home, but it filled up my bank account with enough money to ensure that I will have plenty to live on should I get one or both internships. God had once again worked everything out perfectly beyond my limited scheming--the idea only took root in my brain after a former coworker emailed me on my birthday and I joked that maybe the office would need me over vacation--up to that point I was only hoping that maybe I could at best find some part-time work somewhere for minimum wage. His response was, "Seriously--you should ask." People offered me sympathy because I would be would be working over vacation, but it was one of the best things that could have happened. As an extra bonus, we had several days of amazing weather and I spent many a lunch hour just meandering through our beautiful downtown.
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| Probably the most photographed location on Main Street, Greenville |
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| Falls Park in Greenville, a favorite lunch spot |
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| Panoramic from the center of Liberty Bridge in Falls Park |
Of course, I still found time to hit all of my favorite nearby locations such as Dollywood in Pigeon Forge and the Biltmore Estate in Asheville, and I bought season passes to both places with the full confidence that I would be returning many times within the next year. Having the season passes is sort of like a security blanket--a little reminder that when this semester has its challenges (because it will) or I'm feeling particularly homesick (because I will) that I can say, "This too shall pass."
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| What's a trip home without a selfie with Yukon Cornelius? |
Returning to Paris was actually a little harder this time around. The honeymoon phase ended long ago and we had quickly become something of a bickering married couple, so that initial excitement with all of its romantic notions wasn't traveling with me this time. I could even feel myself getting testier in the days before my departure (I'm sure those around me felt it even more), and when my sister's family drove up to the house to say their goodbyes just as we were loading up to the head to the airport, I began to feel almost despondent. I couldn't even attempt to speak as we unloaded the car in front of the airport and I gave my parents one last hug.
At this point you're probably wondering if I regret my decision to pursue this path in life. It was a question I asked myself many times over the last couple of months as well as I would stealthily drive by my old house or spend time with the people that I love or see that deposit in my bank account every two weeks or look at photos of my dog romping around in Indiana. But another blessing of returning to my old job was that it reminded me that although it's a great place to work, it's not what I want to do for the rest of my life. Things may be forever changed and this may be the hardest next few months of my life, but it's all for a purpose--for something better. Jeremiah 29:11 says, "'For I know the plans I have for you,' declares the Lord, 'plans for welfare and not for evil, to give you a future and a hope.'" It's that promise of a "future and a hope" to which I'm clinging, and there's nobody better to be in control of it than the Lord.
Getting back to school also helped reinforce my motivation to finish. Written confirmation that I passed both Intermediate Pastry and Cuisine was a definite boost to my spirits, even though the latter I achieved by less than seven points on my exam (I needed 50% to pass and squeaked by with 56.5%, but I did make 77.2% on the pastry exam--much better than the 52.7% last semester). Some of the old excitement is building back up as I leaf through the Superior recipe books and peruse the schedule, and being the equivalent of the "Senior class" at school is a pretty special feeling. I've refreshed my goal once again to "be the best" rather than "just survive and pass," a short-lived idea no doubt but always a good way to start the semester.
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| Intermediate certificates, scribbles and all |
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| Intermediate Cuisine class |
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| Intermediate Pastry class |
