tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-70551767713725989262024-02-06T18:14:47.517-08:00Kerry HandsAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15818532587630238644noreply@blogger.comBlogger31125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7055176771372598926.post-40992217004102845102015-01-13T07:04:00.002-08:002015-01-13T07:05:53.909-08:00Intermediate Week Ten, Exams, and NormalcyMy apologies to anyone who was still following my blog and wondering what happened after Intermediate week nine and didn't have the personal or social media connections to keep in the know--I could offer a hundred excuses as to why it took me over two months to write my next post but they're all pretty lame because in truth, I did have plenty of time but very little motivation once I returned home for vacation. My cuisine final exam was a disaster and I spent several weeks wondering if I had even passed the course because I didn't hang around town long enough to get my certificate. In short, I just didn't want to talk about it. We'll come back to that in a bit.<br />
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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 <a href="https://www.cordonbleu.edu/lcb-paris/en" target="_blank">Le Cordon Bleu</a> 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.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">White bread (bottom); Fogaccia (middle);<br />
Baguettes (top left); ?? (top right)</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">White bread and baguettes galore--I still have some in my freezer;<br />
It's hard to look fierce in the pastry kitchen but I tried</td></tr>
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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 <i>Opéra</i>. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Last cuisine demonstration--shellfish, some sort of beef,<br />
and a blackberry dessert is my best guess</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mille-feuille, so named because of the three layers of puff pastry</td></tr>
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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 <i>not</i> 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.</div>
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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.</div>
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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 <i>really</i> 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.</div>
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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.</div>
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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.</div>
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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, "<i>What</i> 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.</div>
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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.)</div>
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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.</div>
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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?"<br />
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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!"</div>
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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, "<a href="http://www.aeroportsdeparis.fr/" target="_blank">Charles de Gaulle</a> 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.<br />
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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 <a href="http://www.clemson.edu/" target="_blank">Clemson </a>frat boys sat opposite me in their bright orange shirts with the white tiger paw and matching duffle bags. Arriving at <a href="http://www.gspairport.com/" target="_blank">GSP</a> 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 <a href="http://www.muttsbbqgreer.com/" target="_blank">Mutt's BBQ</a> 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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-IaE4g5Oa2Dp_8u7y-KVC5ktZcXMUVGa4u8EfLdbAs8JAdjphx7eGQ_bBZ-FJGWbmuv68NfQi_2pA9QPDk2zQvUlo1cInJQpymK9-DDf5tyqWV7pO-IFhILzmLa4uYYw3MKljfHeeyA/s1600/Downtown1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-IaE4g5Oa2Dp_8u7y-KVC5ktZcXMUVGa4u8EfLdbAs8JAdjphx7eGQ_bBZ-FJGWbmuv68NfQi_2pA9QPDk2zQvUlo1cInJQpymK9-DDf5tyqWV7pO-IFhILzmLa4uYYw3MKljfHeeyA/s1600/Downtown1.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Probably the most photographed location on Main Street, Greenville</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyRFRSllzcsh23FF7z3dYZyry4yrICh85uiBKEfnj_s1rEojq2oU6ocOZQiFQKdJxyWrRCskQebj-Qciy0KTeEHnjHoxahaZdkXSceIxogjZ_k5Fk5iB3tfxjytCuRZzd8Av5rnQF4Uw/s1600/IMG_1848+(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyRFRSllzcsh23FF7z3dYZyry4yrICh85uiBKEfnj_s1rEojq2oU6ocOZQiFQKdJxyWrRCskQebj-Qciy0KTeEHnjHoxahaZdkXSceIxogjZ_k5Fk5iB3tfxjytCuRZzd8Av5rnQF4Uw/s1600/IMG_1848+(2).JPG" height="86" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Falls Park in Greenville, a favorite lunch spot</td></tr>
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<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEcAhqnbpQeb2zgytxEX0vof-nNX2OjgQKK5kOs4618dqkn_gwZSBhOUYZRaZ82Q_YW5xCIujjUaNOjOROAky8cjS3MQeNS44bZerXPPuUkNE_Rif_HtSthGr0pYslsFDsHEzYs_T-Uw/s1600/IMG_1907.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEcAhqnbpQeb2zgytxEX0vof-nNX2OjgQKK5kOs4618dqkn_gwZSBhOUYZRaZ82Q_YW5xCIujjUaNOjOROAky8cjS3MQeNS44bZerXPPuUkNE_Rif_HtSthGr0pYslsFDsHEzYs_T-Uw/s1600/IMG_1907.JPG" height="88" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Panoramic from the center of Liberty Bridge in Falls Park</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Of course, I still found time to hit all of my favorite nearby locations such as <a href="http://www.dollywood.com/" target="_blank">Dollywood</a> in Pigeon Forge and the <a href="http://www.biltmore.com/" target="_blank">Biltmore Estate</a> 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."<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4x8RWw5Vuv4zulwq-GctaD6284inrghKcbwz0_AGAl6b-id5s7Vl48AW3QrZw9tLebheQwTcR1fJF8NxoA64H6BJ9cogPJU39YJMuaJapmDn7lLTIkf8AI3Byl0wn8Lfth0nvzbcB4g/s1600/IMG_1914.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4x8RWw5Vuv4zulwq-GctaD6284inrghKcbwz0_AGAl6b-id5s7Vl48AW3QrZw9tLebheQwTcR1fJF8NxoA64H6BJ9cogPJU39YJMuaJapmDn7lLTIkf8AI3Byl0wn8Lfth0nvzbcB4g/s1600/IMG_1914.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">What's a trip home without a selfie with Yukon Cornelius?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQ2gApy7_GqQYk8e3Fie2AyST9GO-J0hT-h_FPCKBwt4eLA7tXurydAl3SkAecYNmK-hI3o8wv3FTTDQot8Fx3QjinSLN3ov0uZD45XjLFxT0miJ-sVfoKlN5d6TtScv5ypey0LGTNCA/s1600/Certificates.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQ2gApy7_GqQYk8e3Fie2AyST9GO-J0hT-h_FPCKBwt4eLA7tXurydAl3SkAecYNmK-hI3o8wv3FTTDQot8Fx3QjinSLN3ov0uZD45XjLFxT0miJ-sVfoKlN5d6TtScv5ypey0LGTNCA/s1600/Certificates.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Intermediate certificates, scribbles and all</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhW0mPH33yjl0KWA4xPWQ9FPIwqdit-cfk7-M1Ie6BC2D6mAEWEN0dY_Ttwp6ZZwSBXv4GDSMKm7EAxIQ0BUW7l1wQDnlaJnjRQdamQWM5mIxgMxVT055NSlGvr5KKdUZQbSKApsyc9_A/s1600/IC+Photo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhW0mPH33yjl0KWA4xPWQ9FPIwqdit-cfk7-M1Ie6BC2D6mAEWEN0dY_Ttwp6ZZwSBXv4GDSMKm7EAxIQ0BUW7l1wQDnlaJnjRQdamQWM5mIxgMxVT055NSlGvr5KKdUZQbSKApsyc9_A/s1600/IC+Photo.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Intermediate Cuisine class</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJjxYAEchIAcE19pP3c3SJR52ZFq6FbP9_utn3swmakTafiR9SGCeRsD2Uup10iYhplyJUM63aUp4hHga6nTRQZoJdrPGUJ9X5xCh0fBmw4xLhFX-LrgIrJYKcM_3lbwUTw3YV5eFBUw/s1600/IP+Photo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJjxYAEchIAcE19pP3c3SJR52ZFq6FbP9_utn3swmakTafiR9SGCeRsD2Uup10iYhplyJUM63aUp4hHga6nTRQZoJdrPGUJ9X5xCh0fBmw4xLhFX-LrgIrJYKcM_3lbwUTw3YV5eFBUw/s1600/IP+Photo.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Intermediate Pastry class</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15818532587630238644noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7055176771372598926.post-40374946121456769622014-11-02T14:36:00.002-08:002014-11-02T14:52:08.876-08:00Intermediate Week NineI've mentioned my obsession with spreadsheets, and my class schedule is no exception. Not very long ago I was looking at the new Intermediate schedule and feeling like an eternity stretched before me, but looking back over it again at the end of week nine makes me wonder if I went through some sort of time warp. This bird's-eye view is my favorite--it reminds me that while things might seem a bit daunting or even impossible at the beginning, the day will come when those sometimes enjoyable, sometimes trying days will be behind me and I'll be one step closer to my goal. It's a good reminder, too, because I'll be back at week one again in January. For several months before I made the decision to come to <a href="https://www.cordonbleu.edu/lcb-paris/en" target="_blank">Le Cordon Bleu</a> and completely dismantle my life, I anticipated these moments, reasoning with people that while it seemed late in life to be making such a big change--that getting where I want to be was going to be a long, tough row to hoe--time would continue on regardless of my decision. Every year that passed of doing nothing I would keep looking back and thinking, "If I had just started at such-and-such a time I would have finished by now." Sure, the hardest days may still lie ahead, but each day of success makes the end more palpable and real--not some distant, fuzzy dream.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitMoLpCFw1dZNC_-NAZnakG6vRjC10zFr2ttiC91OFmHPUHtWEa9la93IvfOq746ATqKpLjYXKiX0WkKLWaMrzQMpUTyVCvRo4-R8xI9_93KsbwjXYvCbXV7jtf1aXsOh3rz-FqC_8Zw/s1600/Schedule.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitMoLpCFw1dZNC_-NAZnakG6vRjC10zFr2ttiC91OFmHPUHtWEa9la93IvfOq746ATqKpLjYXKiX0WkKLWaMrzQMpUTyVCvRo4-R8xI9_93KsbwjXYvCbXV7jtf1aXsOh3rz-FqC_8Zw/s1600/Schedule.jpg" height="185" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Monday through Saturday with classrooms down the left side; three-hour class buckets across the top<br />
Green = Cuisine; Orange = Pastry</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<i><u>Monday</u></i><br />
<br />
Classes were squeezed into four days this week giving us a free day on Monday. It was providential timing because John and Suzie Lehman from my <a href="http://www.hamptonpark.org/" target="_blank">church</a> back home were returning from Lebanon with a 20-hour layover in Paris. At 2:00 PM I met them at the airport to help them find their hotel and give them the whirlwind-version tour of Paris. The weather couldn't have been more beautiful which made the eight or so miles that we walked all the more enjoyable. Starting from <a href="http://www.notredamedeparis.fr/-English-" target="_blank">Notre Dame Cathedral</a> we made our way down to the <a href="http://www.louvre.fr/en" target="_blank">Louvre</a>, through the <a href="http://equipement.paris.fr/jardin-des-tuileries-1795" target="_blank">Tuileries Garden</a>, past the Place de la Concorde (where I was very excited to recognize the fountain from one of my favorite paintings that my <a href="http://www.drewconleystudio.com/" target="_blank">pastor</a> did), and all the way down Avenue Champs-Elysées to the <a href="http://arc-de-triomphe.monuments-nationaux.fr/" target="_blank">Arc de Triomphe</a> (the Lehman's are cycling fans--it was kind of a mecca for them). We completed our tour with an obligatory stop by the Eiffel Tower in time to catch the sparkly light show before heading to dinner. We rounded out the evening with gelato at <a href="http://www.amorino.com/en/" target="_blank">Amorino</a>'s before the Lehmans braved their first trip on the Metro back to the hotel.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinkC2FquNLUWF8k9l6kU2Oq5CwJzXdrhys87ZEb68K8ZmbO3dOuII9G9g6LVfIcT5XAbPrWRfU7QQI-b4sZs0eV36gR4GbShfm-6X0FbdF8hqruY_RLJc3Rbm6W2RR82az6kPgLqYwnQ/s1600/IMG_1691.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinkC2FquNLUWF8k9l6kU2Oq5CwJzXdrhys87ZEb68K8ZmbO3dOuII9G9g6LVfIcT5XAbPrWRfU7QQI-b4sZs0eV36gR4GbShfm-6X0FbdF8hqruY_RLJc3Rbm6W2RR82az6kPgLqYwnQ/s1600/IMG_1691.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">John and Suzie Lehman at the Place de la Concorde fountain</td></tr>
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<br />
As impressive as Paris is, my favorite part of the day was just being with this couple. While smiling at strangers in this city may be, well, frowned upon, I don't think that the two of them ever stopped, and observing John was particularly enjoyable--every runner that passed us got a wave and shout of, "Good job!" causing some of them to almost stumble with surprise, at least half a dozen people received assistance in getting group shots, and the waiter at the restaurant got more compliments on the food and service than he probably ever heard or deserved. The whole time I was thinking, "Whom does John remind me of?" until it finally hit me later that evening: <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0319343/" target="_blank">Buddy the Elf </a>(the less goofy and better dressed version, of course). Those of you who know me well know that I mean that as only the highest form of compliment because I would <i>totally </i>want to hang out with Buddy if he ever came to Paris. That would make a great sequel, as a matter of fact: <i>Elf in Paris</i> (I'm going to call copyright on that idea... if that's how one copyrights ideas). Afterwards I thought, "I should be more like that with people!" but my resolve quickly died by probably my next visit to the grocery store.<br />
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<i><u>Tuesday</u></i><br />
<br />
Like the croissant pastry lesson in basic, Croquembouche needed two entire pastry classes in a row. The Croquembouche is a traditional French wedding cake composed of a caramel nougatine base--a sort of almond brittle-- topped with cream-filled choux pastries and decorated with more nougatine and white frosting similar to what one might use in decorating a gingerbread house. Pastry classes tend to be a little more slow-paced than cuisine classes, but this one was tortuous. Watching the chef make a couple of choux pastries is one thing, but watching him make about 100 and then observing him dipping each one into caramel and arranging them into two towers was really, really... long. Things got interesting again around hour four when he showed us pulled sugar, a sort of bonus and a task with which we'll become more familiar in superior pastry, but even that became painful to watch after an hour or so. I spent much of the six hours thinking of ways that I could sneak coffee into class in the future.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOAyl4cVpGZr4ZA-V6zn8GL_sgyCrJMLqNHWNfomJx3ZbQ3079_YKX7qYR-Wlm8duPwzWARb0977MMJCItynFFCiz9E6HviMJiAoVLKbwk9AyTolg6pOsRbu3F6GJXT5hOpWqUndWiiQ/s1600/IMG_1707.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOAyl4cVpGZr4ZA-V6zn8GL_sgyCrJMLqNHWNfomJx3ZbQ3079_YKX7qYR-Wlm8duPwzWARb0977MMJCItynFFCiz9E6HviMJiAoVLKbwk9AyTolg6pOsRbu3F6GJXT5hOpWqUndWiiQ/s1600/IMG_1707.JPG" height="640" width="380" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The result of 6 hours' work: Croquembouche and pulled sugar designs</td></tr>
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At 3:30 we joined Chef Poupard for a cuisine demonstration on "fantasy" of smoked and fresh salmon (no, I don't know why it's called that, but it was pretty good), sea bass in a salt crust served with a vegetable tart puff pastry (because the French can't leave perfectly good and healthy zucchini, eggplant, and tomato alone), and chestnut cake with caramel ice cream. While the pace was much faster than in the pastry demonstration, I decided that I never want nine hours of demonstrations in one day again. I also discovered that if one hangs around class a little while after it's finished, a lot of dessert is left over because a good number of students leave before we even reach the dessert tasting. I won't say how many unclaimed dishes of caramel ice cream I rescued, but it was <i>so</i> good.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUhAb66U5N6aBe94sOITndtYYIcQfA63zRA16BSbmkwBYWrUF4QghvulD4kqk5t_vKBtlb5mo9eiNEMtHn1sySz-g7lW1dYzv5d7AhYDa0CdS5M_a1s0wOKbeNnFNRdV3RMuCujv57uw/s1600/IMG_1711.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUhAb66U5N6aBe94sOITndtYYIcQfA63zRA16BSbmkwBYWrUF4QghvulD4kqk5t_vKBtlb5mo9eiNEMtHn1sySz-g7lW1dYzv5d7AhYDa0CdS5M_a1s0wOKbeNnFNRdV3RMuCujv57uw/s1600/IMG_1711.JPG" height="207" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sea bass baked in a salt crust; Vegetable tarts,<br />
Salmon rillettes; Chestnut cake with caramel ice cream</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<i><u>Wednesday</u></i><br />
<br />
Despite a week of classes squeezed into four days, our only class Wednesday was our cuisine practicum at 3:30 to make the sea bass and vegetable tart. It was my week to be the assistant again and Caals wanted us to make the salt crust for everyone (or at least weigh out the ingredients in the mixer for him). My fellow assistant showed up only after I got all of our food from the basement, so I suggested that he measure out the salt crust ingredients while I retrieved the puff pastry sheets from the third floor kitchen. When I came back he was at his station sharpening his utensils and the bowl for the salt crust was still empty. Asking him again if he could take care of it while I went next door to get flour, I came back and he was chopping his vegetables for his sauce. Seeing this was a battle that I would not win, I finally did it myself.<br />
<br />
Of course I was the last person to finish our dish, and I had to keep my facial expression in check when chef came to my station asking me why my fish was the only one not yet in the oven. Caals also assigns us stations in the classroom and two burners didn't work on my stove nor did my oven function properly--the tarts that were supposed to bake in 20 minutes were not even brown after 40 minutes. Caals finally gave everything a cursory check without bothering to taste anything (except the sauce) or waiting for me to plate before he took off. It worked somewhat in my favor, though--only after enveloping the sea bass in the salt crust did I realize that I had forgotten to add any seasoning or herbs into its stomach cavity.<br />
<br />
<i><u>Thursday</u></i><br />
<br />
We began our day with Caals doing a demonstration on marinated sea bass and shellfish with aromatic vegetables, roasted veal tenderloin cooked pink with creamy risotto, asparagus coulis, and mushroom duxelles in Mornay sauce, and mango poached in vanilla-passion fruit syrup with strawberry granita and meringue fingers. The veal was our last dish on the final exam list--an unusual but desirable choice because while it has several components, it requires very little technique. I should probably not get my hopes up about pulling that one from the hat...<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDe5LnQFNylgsb94-s5b7qop3p1YmStgzeWC3pKWFvX9wFErT9PCZyJ8ElfMqE8hlJLVgJxH6dCBiyvn722BpR_v_izpA-RvGB2W9-JUSQi7Ax8ZuT-BgzG2lwmMPiHW23X5md_58pnw/s1600/IMG_1722.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDe5LnQFNylgsb94-s5b7qop3p1YmStgzeWC3pKWFvX9wFErT9PCZyJ8ElfMqE8hlJLVgJxH6dCBiyvn722BpR_v_izpA-RvGB2W9-JUSQi7Ax8ZuT-BgzG2lwmMPiHW23X5md_58pnw/s1600/IMG_1722.JPG" height="312" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Seas bass and shellfish; Poached mango with strawberry granita and meringue fingers;<br />
Veal tenderloin with creamy risotto, mushroom Mornay sauce, and asparagus coulis </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
After lunch we again met up with Caals in our practicum for the veal tenderloin. Once more I had to play the sole assistant only this time it was because the other assistant was late to the previous demonstration which meant that he was marked absent and not allowed to attend the practicum. The problem was that he had already hit his maximum six absences, meaning that he was automatically disqualified from graduating. He wasn't going down without a fight, though, so while student services, the executive chef, and our chef were off somewhere having a little meeting with him I was trying to hunt down chicken stock. In the end, they gave him a reprieve and he joined the rest of our class looking relieved and a little embarrassed, although probably not as much as he should have. Honestly, I like the kid (he's actually 22), but I have very little pity for a student who uses up every absence because he overslept... sometimes through classes that started 12:30, 3:30, or even 6:30 in the afternoon or evening. It's also fairly easy to identify which students have sacrificed everything to come to school here and which ones are being supported financially by their parents or a scholarship. These are the thoughts that I pondered while running down to the basement for the third time to get missing ingredients.<br />
<br />
My performance seems to vary with the chef--with some chefs I do consistently well and with others I screw up a lot of things. Caals has experienced more of my screw-ups than anyone, but despite the delays this dish actually turned out really well. His only complaint was that my meat wasn't pink enough, but my jus, asparagus, asparagus coulis, risotto, and mornay and mushroom duxelles sauce were all quite nice. We finished about an hour early, too--I really, really want to pull this dish on the exam.<br />
<br />
The next class didn't begin for over three hours, so after returning to the studio I spent the rest of my free time catching up on some recipes that I had not yet typed up. That evening we had Caals for the third time that day, this time doing a demonstration on the Flanders region of France: warm skate and leek salad, pan-fried cod steak with Flemish-style red cabbage (cabbage cooked with onions, apples, and red wine) and fried onion rings, and a rhubarb tart. Rhubarb pie is one of my favorite desserts, and even though it would've been better with vanilla ice cream, I stuck around after class to help "clean up" some of the extra tart.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8zN6sL2hNKOf6jwGWFS8jgHQ0VzSQ93JWxCQJfHj2xGS6pJ3GaVSF_2iqpbu0AkD2vFWH0bTRY4RIJF_0cOV-02kaQk0gqfe_GzyjAWcEtwVYCRaf7DqvKaKcfnWYBEoMEnnxOTy3CA/s1600/IMG_1725.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8zN6sL2hNKOf6jwGWFS8jgHQ0VzSQ93JWxCQJfHj2xGS6pJ3GaVSF_2iqpbu0AkD2vFWH0bTRY4RIJF_0cOV-02kaQk0gqfe_GzyjAWcEtwVYCRaf7DqvKaKcfnWYBEoMEnnxOTy3CA/s1600/IMG_1725.JPG" height="240" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Skate and leek salad; Cod steak with Flemish-style<br />
red cabbage and onion rings; Rhubarb tart</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<i><u>Friday</u></i><br />
<br />
The Croquembouche began promptly at 8:30 in the morning. By now we were all old pros with choux pastries and caramel was becoming more familiar, so the basic techniques weren't difficult. The issue came from working with food that was approximately the same consistency as napalm. We had to roll out, line a cake mold with, and cut shapes in the nougatine while it was hot because it would break as soon as it cooled, which it did very quickly once it was taken out of the pot. To solve this problem we spread the nougatine on baking trays that we would pop in and out of the oven between shapes. Even that didn't make it simple--the trips to the oven were frequent and the nougatine grew darker with each reheating, so speed in working with it was essential.<br />
<br />
Filling the choux pastries with pastry cream was easier but time-consuming--one of those tasks where every time I would look down at the pile of unfilled pastries I could swear that they were multiplying. The next step was to dip each pastry into boiling caramel--the hotter the better so that the little balls wouldn't stick in the saucepan. The only way to do it was by hand--pinching with two fingers the hole where we had piped in the cream, dipping the top in the caramel, and flipping it onto parchment paper. We quickly learned the necessity of having a bowl of ice water close by for when our fingers inevitably would make contact with the caramel, but after a few cautious dunks I got into a quick rhythm, still getting a little burn here and there but quickly taking care of it before any fingers caramelized.<br />
<br />
Chef forced us out the room for our lunch break (given a vote we would have all stayed to finish), but we managed to come back early for the last major step: re-dipping each pastry in the caramel and arranging them into the cone-shaped tower. I was again making good time and perhaps getting careless, because I did finally manage to stick enough of my finger in the caramel that even the immediate ice bath wasn't sufficient to stop a large blister from forming (apparently the amount of hot caramel covering your skin is a factor in how quickly you can stop the burning). Overestimating how many pastries I would need to complete the tower, I made it smaller than necessary and it ended up at an awkward angle, but I was mostly pleased with the final result and Tranchant seemed happy with everyone's work.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaMp7EtMNKYU-YWMfk9q82bDtnt86gO2gsl0gTMbA-QG0IyHStOvZsifnaP2hdP501HCR7Gkcw_XN5MiS5KulELTNPSRLy4yJ5NjeHDRUsNn7WhhtDa-6e4McobeRM_3AkSTKIGw6HmA/s1600/IMG_1729.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaMp7EtMNKYU-YWMfk9q82bDtnt86gO2gsl0gTMbA-QG0IyHStOvZsifnaP2hdP501HCR7Gkcw_XN5MiS5KulELTNPSRLy4yJ5NjeHDRUsNn7WhhtDa-6e4McobeRM_3AkSTKIGw6HmA/s1600/IMG_1729.JPG" height="267" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Class Croquembouches</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Because the second part of the Croquembouche took less than two hours, I was again afforded a nice long afternoon break before returning for the evening practicum on the cod steak, red cabbage, and onion rings. Miraculously the second assistant arrived at school before me and sent all of the food up in the dumb waiter by the time that I got there. Because it was the last practical of Intermediate and not one of the exam dishes, three of the eight students in our class simply decided not to come, figuring that their grades were safe enough by this point. It was, as one student put it, the most "chill" class that we've ever had--almost like making dinner in my own home. Nobody was rushing around because the dish was so simple and there was little to do while waiting for the cabbage to cook, we were experimenting with onion ring batter, the kid that asks too many questions was deep-frying his extra fish just because he had the time (and we had a lot of extra fish), and our chef was out of the room for extended periods of time while we were singing "Fly Me to the Moon" (that did bring the chef next door over to ask jokingly, I think, if we thought we were in singing school or cooking school). My fish ended up slightly overcooked and the cabbage, though quite tasty, wasn't sliced thinly enough, but the onion rings were great (I curdled the milk for the batter with vinegar to make "buttermilk" and added a little cayenne pepper to the flour to American-ize them a bit).<br />
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<i><u>Saturday</u></i><br />
<br />
One habit that I've had since I got here is to check the local <a href="http://www.weather.com/" target="_blank">weather forecast</a> each morning on my phone as soon as I wake up, and I always check the forecast for Greenville as well. Imagine my surprise when I saw that back home it was... snowing. Now those of you from places such as, say, Wisconsin might wonder why that's such a big deal (I saw my first snow while living in the UP in October), but when you live in a land where the average number of snow days per year is 0.5, it's significant. Instead of doing anything productive I spent most of my day monitoring the weather app and looking for new snow photos on Facebook, living vicariously through the people back home.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsIrz8BatbrcbUwgLLKX1Sy5Al20T9ztzO2a8oxk-HKMXjG5sSi1q9AImqC3haBDvY_4gYwxV88eCwFLbxYgho3rFqaUxcMEtLoZ4Bm2I7j4cDV-w0nPSmz-1nHgEktI4BpUwCsSXEug/s1600/IMG_1731.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsIrz8BatbrcbUwgLLKX1Sy5Al20T9ztzO2a8oxk-HKMXjG5sSi1q9AImqC3haBDvY_4gYwxV88eCwFLbxYgho3rFqaUxcMEtLoZ4Bm2I7j4cDV-w0nPSmz-1nHgEktI4BpUwCsSXEug/s1600/IMG_1731.PNG" height="351" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0052520/" target="_blank">The Twilight Zone</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Not that I could complain about the weather in Paris, mind you--it was a gorgeous day--although I am a bit cranky about the shared heat in my building that first came on a couple of weeks ago. Back home in my drafty old house I would set my thermostat to 58 degrees at night and sleep in flannel or fleece pajamas under flannel sheets, a down comforter, and another blanket or two. I <i>love</i> sleeping like that. Now I have no thermostat and the indoor temperature has been perpetually around 75 degrees since the heat came on--I haven't even been able to use my winter pajamas or the blanket that I bought back in August when it was so cold at night. Leaving the terrace doors open cools it down only a little because I still keep the shade down for privacy, but it also invites in a host of fruit flies and mosquitoes. I could try covering the vents, but I think that most of the heat is radiating up from the two floors below me.<br />
<br />
Taking advantage of the lovely day, however, I finally decided to pull myself away from the computer and take a stroll down to <a href="http://www.marksandspencer.com/" target="_blank">Marks & Spencer</a> to replenish my bacon supply and grab a few ingredients in order to practice making a Béarnaise sauce for the technical portion of the final exam. It's nothing terribly complicated, but the last time that we made it was in basic cuisine and I figured I could use any practice that I can get. Back at the studio I did my hair and makeup for an astonishing third time that week because Gretchen had an extra ticket to see the famous opera singer <a href="http://ceciliabartolionline.com/" target="_blank">Cecilia Bartoli</a> performing at the <a href="http://www.theatrechampselysees.fr/" target="_blank">Théâtre des Champs-Elysées</a>. The performance was fabulous, of course--probably the best voice that I had ever heard live. I mean, my dad has a good voice and I've heard him sing a LOT, but this experience was one of those once-in-a-lifetime things that you don't soon forget.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh12whsuAqc1Fkb9K9KR1anpqEUVshWvxDcoR2YEDcsvU0lQpwYqj5FXKs2QhFfTNVnN4YBVSb4jVouhSJQf8eWXUFvmruC4-O6Rw4M1FLO1DE3jZSuILTiTqYgsZ5Yh_XxqUEG9AaZjg/s1600/IMG_1736.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh12whsuAqc1Fkb9K9KR1anpqEUVshWvxDcoR2YEDcsvU0lQpwYqj5FXKs2QhFfTNVnN4YBVSb4jVouhSJQf8eWXUFvmruC4-O6Rw4M1FLO1DE3jZSuILTiTqYgsZ5Yh_XxqUEG9AaZjg/s1600/IMG_1736.JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">She ended the show in this outfit--I admire her ability<br />
not to sweat almost as much as I admire her voice.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15818532587630238644noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7055176771372598926.post-59272748955975699352014-10-26T19:25:00.001-07:002014-10-26T19:25:37.111-07:00Intermediate Week EightThis week was one of many happy events, some related to my birthday and some just coinciding with my birthday week. My spirits were at an all-time high, broken only temporarily upon discovering that the locker thief struck again, but I digress. Some events I'll address in my summary of the week, but here are a few highlights:<br />
<ul>
<li><u><a href="http://www.marksandspencer.com/" target="_blank">Marks & Spencer</a></u>. A classmate from the UK told me on several occasions during my bacon rants that I could probably find real bacon at this British-based store, but I was skeptical and not willing to go out of my way to test her theory until a special gift arrived that made me <i>have</i> to have bacon. After a quick search online for the closest one, I discovered that one was only a 15-minute walk from my studio. It still wasn't on par with <a href="http://www.publix.com/" target="_blank">Publix</a> or even <a href="https://www.bi-lo.com/Pages/Home.aspx" target="_blank">Bi-Lo</a>, but it did indeed carry bacon--super-salty bacon, but definitely bacon. It also carried prawn cocktail chips (or crisps, I should say)--a flavor that I've been missing since 1997 when I was in Cyprus. As if my joy wasn't complete enough, they bagged my groceries.</li>
<li><u><a href="http://www.chipotle.com/" target="_blank">Chipotle</a></u>. Yes, it exists in Paris and one sits in the mall right outside of Marks & Spencer. I'm not a die-hard Chipotle fan, but it's Mexican food, they have black beans, and as far as I can tell they aren't "Frenchifying" the ingredients--the menu was noticeably lacking eggs. The prices are a good bit higher (e.g., 9,30<span style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;">€</span> for a burrito bowl vs. $7.20, which at the current exchange rate is about $4.50 more), they don't list white rice as an option, and I'm not sure what they use for sour cream, but it's kind of nice just knowing that it will be there when I need it.</li>
<li><u>Coffee Percolator</u>. I have one. In my studio. It's been there since before I moved in back in July. When I came to Paris the only coffee that I could find was the strong stuff served in tiny little cups for a whole lot of money--and without cream, or you can have cream but it costs extra. My first studio had a coffee maker but it didn't look like something that I would want to touch, much less drink from, and not having my favorite <a href="https://www.dunkindonuts.com/dunkindonuts/en/menu/beverages/athomebrewing/packaged_coffee.html" target="_blank">Dunkin Donuts</a> coffee anyhow caused me to give up entirely. I used to drink coffee--<i>needed </i>coffee--every morning before work, but life became so crazy in France that the habit disappeared easily; however, the arrival of a sentimental mug this week made me decide to take up the habit again. After searching my cabinets and finding the percolator, watching a few online videos on how to use it, and purchasing a rather nice Christmas blend coffee from M&S, I can't remember how I survived before now. Actually, the habit has gotten worse--I'm making it sometimes twice a day (limited only by the time it takes) and I often find myself daydreaming about my next fix (usually in the middle of class demonstrations).</li>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZwjOa-ZfCATffnABdFxd8xAUkn8WUnqcUVVhuE_eTGJe776U99JQ8-NlAG-tZPXAslzIHlXh_3QW-J22-3sk2jLMIZf9PT6YgPt3u2ZSsqltApKZxZFhhzIN8Fq_ojcUrFLTysYJv4w/s1600/IMG_0038.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZwjOa-ZfCATffnABdFxd8xAUkn8WUnqcUVVhuE_eTGJe776U99JQ8-NlAG-tZPXAslzIHlXh_3QW-J22-3sk2jLMIZf9PT6YgPt3u2ZSsqltApKZxZFhhzIN8Fq_ojcUrFLTysYJv4w/s1600/IMG_0038.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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<li><u>G. Detou</u>. I wanted to make something that called for cream of tartar but finding the stuff in Paris is like looking for a needle in a haystack. A <a href="http://www.google.com/" target="_blank">Google</a> search clued me into G. Detou (in French it sounds like the expression for "I have everything"). They did indeed have cream of tartar, and although the smallest size was over seven ounces, it was relatively inexpensive--only about six euros. They also carried a huge assortment of nuts and dried fruits, spices, oils, and more specialty items than I had time to take in.</li>
</ul>
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These happy events were only the tip of the iceberg, though...</div>
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<i><u>Monday</u></i></div>
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This week didn't start out as one to which I was looking forward--the prospect of celebrating my birthday all alone so far away from home felt somewhat akin to The Worst Birthday Ever back in 2005 when all of my family were scattered far and wide, my friends were tied up in the Sunday routine, and my trip to church in the evening was cut short by a fender bender and traffic ticket.</div>
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My first class of the day wasn't until 3:30, so I slept in a bit before getting up and puttering around the studio in my pajamas. At 10:00 AM my phone rang, and after some confusing gibberish back and forth in English and French, I figured out that it was the postman with a package. He wanted to know on which floor I was located and when I said, "The second," I heard his footsteps working their way up the stairs. Laying the phone on the table while shouting into it, "Hold on... Attendez!" I quickly changed clothes and abandoned the idea of finding my glasses to answer the door. Squinting curiously at the large box after I signed for it, I ducked back into the apartment and grabbed some scissors.</div>
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The first cut released an aroma that can best be described as... fall. More excited now, I tore into the box to find Pumpkin Spice and Harvest-scented <a href="http://www.yankeecandle.com/" target="_blank">Yankee Candles</a>, <a href="http://www.crackerbarrel.com/" target="_blank">Cracker Barrel</a> sweet potato pancake mix and apple butter, a giant mug, Burt's Bees hand cream and lip balm, a cute door-hanging pillow, birthday party regalia, a card, and dozens of inspirational quotes and verses hand-written by two incredible friends. Happy tears sprang into my eyes as I continued sniffing the aromatic candles, their scents all the stronger because their jars had shattered (but they were still perfectly functional). </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm6qop4dyMdmt1EObFR-wzFImsXehN7PPA4W0sJcQpu79Z1Frf_0qZ9l1W2cCa-npcOsJL_RqJCSFjeaXbjzKWXBRVTtrzjqpdiX9mf5JwLaXE9VznEPehdiSDSzPqWGGn0nGrC0VVwQ/s1600/IMG_1636.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm6qop4dyMdmt1EObFR-wzFImsXehN7PPA4W0sJcQpu79Z1Frf_0qZ9l1W2cCa-npcOsJL_RqJCSFjeaXbjzKWXBRVTtrzjqpdiX9mf5JwLaXE9VznEPehdiSDSzPqWGGn0nGrC0VVwQ/s1600/IMG_1636.JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a></div>
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The afternoon's pastry practical was to make the chestnut mousse cake from Friday's demonstration. The only challenging part was piping the approximately 3,000 spikes all over the cake surface before spraying it with chocolate, but in the end mine didn't look half bad--as a matter of fact, the chef strongly applauded it. The taste, however, was terrible (because it was a terrible recipe), so I was more than happy to leave it sitting in the winter garden for other students to consume. Upon arriving home a half-hour later and opening the front door, those joyous smells of fall hit me head-on, sending me into another giddy spin.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOjZbWMZnvUhtnhmf3I7dUqJBunGs2ySioqxp6RRMPXHWlS1_qqCVuZMfw1J-a0vNwN1Unc9zMoVvjgkutvBR6N3gyYT4s_KWRsueohBhzhlx-yUrKyn0H5BOiSVlryVnZzUTsmPFhRQ/s1600/IMG_1640.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOjZbWMZnvUhtnhmf3I7dUqJBunGs2ySioqxp6RRMPXHWlS1_qqCVuZMfw1J-a0vNwN1Unc9zMoVvjgkutvBR6N3gyYT4s_KWRsueohBhzhlx-yUrKyn0H5BOiSVlryVnZzUTsmPFhRQ/s1600/IMG_1640.JPG" height="291" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Chestnut mousse cakes</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOLxgMfFrwsllye1EmVZxsShFCG5hBbEkqgdOLBTPai7yd1EQ44XF8W7RTzOpVIU-B5uKRRL8ZKr7GtqiIEbg3jsC2VqlchWy5SLjAGk1ZJRGXpLn4dN3O4QVERJX7wGl5xQmTHdCjkg/s1600/IMG_1638.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOLxgMfFrwsllye1EmVZxsShFCG5hBbEkqgdOLBTPai7yd1EQ44XF8W7RTzOpVIU-B5uKRRL8ZKr7GtqiIEbg3jsC2VqlchWy5SLjAGk1ZJRGXpLn4dN3O4QVERJX7wGl5xQmTHdCjkg/s1600/IMG_1638.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Practice making chocolate cigarettes while waiting for our cakes to freeze</td></tr>
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<i><u>Tuesday</u></i></div>
<div>
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<div>
Although classes didn't begin until 12:30, I woke up rather early and quite excited to begin the day or, more specifically, to eat breakfast. My sweet potato pancake with a dollop of apple butter turned out perfectly as did the scrambled eggs that I threw in for a boost of protein, but something was missing, namely grits, bacon, sawmill gravy, and a good, steaming cup of coffee. The grits and gravy I could do without (not that I don't love grits, mind you), but my new mission became one to acquire the bacon and coffee. The coffee urge was also rooted in the new mug from my care package--I grow sentimental attachments to mugs, like the blue and white one that my parents sent to me in Wisconsin on my birthday, or the one from Alaska that a friend in grad school gave me, or the half-dozen or so mugs from our Swihart family reunions--and I was already attached to this one. I recalled seeing a strange contraption in the cabinet above the stove when I first moved in, so climbing up on a chair I pulled it down and disassembled it, thinking that it was some sort of teapot. The word "percolator" came into my head like some weird suppressed memory, and a few Google images later I knew that I was holding something life-changing, or at least morning-changing. Alas, I had not yet purchased coffee grounds so I proceeded on to school.</div>
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<div>
Our first class was a cuisine demonstration on the Périgord region, famous for its foie gras and truffles. The new chef, Mr. Touchy-Feely from our practicum last week, was struggling a bit with his first demonstration so Chef Lesourd, who was teaching next door, would duck in and out to assist. Things were a bit of a mess (not that I'm criticizing--for a first demonstration it wasn't as bad as say, I would do), but he managed to crank out pan-fried duck foie gras with roasted apples and a cider and walnut sauce for the starter, pan-fried steak with celery flan, Madeira and diced truffle sauce, and potatoes cooked in goose fat for the main course, and a caramelized walnut and pine nut galette for dessert. Because we ended so late and a pastry demonstration followed, I couldn't stay for the entire tasting and managed only to grab a bite of foie gras on my way out.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiq4pswYuiz_LBXK_bmgFgbBqxlgeNeGEK0uHctrxLHvft-Fl4TpvCvC5Qtu-3QBg2Qzt4gbc3-OfuDQYTE2cifOyCSpPCgMaBc9QQ2rhGfW4_S4S4j_VlLdevbehyphenhyphenwEJYmpQ7gxsH3PQ/s1600/IMG_1646.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiq4pswYuiz_LBXK_bmgFgbBqxlgeNeGEK0uHctrxLHvft-Fl4TpvCvC5Qtu-3QBg2Qzt4gbc3-OfuDQYTE2cifOyCSpPCgMaBc9QQ2rhGfW4_S4S4j_VlLdevbehyphenhyphenwEJYmpQ7gxsH3PQ/s1600/IMG_1646.JPG" height="290" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Duck foie gras with apples; Steak, celery flan, and potatoes;<br />Walnut and pine nut galette</td></tr>
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Chef Tranchant led the next demonstration on Entremets Passionata, a raspberry and passion fruit cream cake. It started with a "cigarette" batter which gets its name from being used most commonly to make crisp, thin cookies rolled into the shape of a cigarette. In this recipe, though, Tranchant thinly spread out the batter in red and yellow stripes on a baking sheet before covering it in a biscuit sponge batter. Once baked, he used the striped cake to line a ring mold, placing a coconut dacquoise cake bottom in its center. A passion fruit cream center followed, and the cake was finished with a raspberry mousse layer and raspberry glaze over wild strawberries. In addition to the cakes, Tranchant made shaped pear jellies. Although I wasn't a fan of these candies, I do love orange slice candy and wondered if I had just figured out a way to make them from scratch (if successful I may be elevated to Favorite Child status because my dad is an even bigger fan).</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuJsfCOLgSD6Zhpmu_8obtvQT5wg1aAk_f_8w52XE0CAfrDR17R6rrLVNrKCV9YEtp5QMc6kEVmzbPtNJFa-4kdB1-uETdBOGzwigtzMvCYTKyChHKSzvCIc4LBI9ekXEeQ0YAEy4gVg/s1600/IMG_1648.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuJsfCOLgSD6Zhpmu_8obtvQT5wg1aAk_f_8w52XE0CAfrDR17R6rrLVNrKCV9YEtp5QMc6kEVmzbPtNJFa-4kdB1-uETdBOGzwigtzMvCYTKyChHKSzvCIc4LBI9ekXEeQ0YAEy4gVg/s1600/IMG_1648.JPG" height="241" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Entremets Passionata; Shaped pear jelly</td></tr>
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<i><u>Wednesday</u></i></div>
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The morning began with a cuisine practicum to make the steak, flan, and potatoes. The fact that we were going to be making steaks had everyone pretty excited--beef had noticeably been lacking from the practicums in Intermediate. Some annoying mental block caused me once again to forget to degrease the bones before making the stock, and I spent much of the class trying various creative ways to get rid of the grease. In the end my meat was bleu instead of rare as the chef requested, my potatoes,though cooked well, were not uniformly turned, and my flan was okay although not very attractive. The sauce was actually the only perfect part of the dish.</div>
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We finished class before 11:00 AM and I set out on my quest for all items needed for a perfect Thursday morning birthday breakfast. Somewhere along the way I decided that I also needed no-bake cookies--cream and mousse cake on my birthday just wasn't appropriate--and I added oats and peanut butter to my shopping list of elusive grocery items in France. Between Marks & Spencer and <a href="http://www.monoprix.fr/" target="_blank">Monoprix </a>I found everything that I needed (I had to settle on a little box of <a href="http://www.quakeroats.com/home.aspx" target="_blank">Quaker oats</a> and a tiny jar of something called Sun-Pat peanut butter that was priced about three times more than <a href="http://www.nutellausa.com/" target="_blank">Nutella</a> per gram). The last item on the list was half-and-half for my coffee. When you look for milk or creamers in France, don't go to the refrigerated section--these dairy products are contained in <a href="http://www.tetrapak.com/" target="_blank">Tetra Paks</a> and don't need refrigeration until they're opened.</div>
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When I got back to school that evening the locker room was slammed--some classes had just gotten out and others were getting ready to start--and I practically had to crawl over the two girls with lockers below mine to get my uniform and knife kit. Hurrying to get out I noticed that my tennis shoes were still lying on the ground, so I dug the key from my pocket and shoved the shoes into my locker before running off to class.</div>
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Chef Daniel, one of the newer chefs, was supervising our Entremets Passionata. We made the cigarette and biscuit sponge batters together in groups of four because we needed only one strip per person, so the cake was moving along quickly. Both the passion fruit cream and raspberry mousse contained whipped cream, and Chef Tranchant had suggested that we whip all of our cream at once to save time. Making my passion fruit cream base first, I pulled out the 240 ml of cream that I had whipped and, in case you haven't already guessed, I used all of it rather than the 65 ml that the recipe called for. It wasn't until I was making my raspberry mousse that I realized my error, though, because the chef had checked my passion fruit cream and said that it was perfect (I did briefly wonder why it was so much more lightly colored and thicker than my classmates'). In order to make the mousse I needed to whip up more cream but I was afraid that in doing so I would clue the chef in to my mistake. Stealthily whipping cream in a metal bowl with a metal whisk is no easy task, but if chef figured it out he never let on--his final evaluation was that my cake was very nice. There are occasionally advantages to the chefs not cutting into or tasting our cakes.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi566y7AlY7KaqJXoJS2UV7lZY-A0dpAyMnxbyOFU-DE3p3PtCTTdcC6SBjur1MoBl-7LuDFWVjCtMdBP1jl8TjxM-RX2SjEjDfiQ4G2ltx017sseMPLzHqiAIJtaNTyRxu2WXAWO8wMA/s1600/IMG_1655.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi566y7AlY7KaqJXoJS2UV7lZY-A0dpAyMnxbyOFU-DE3p3PtCTTdcC6SBjur1MoBl-7LuDFWVjCtMdBP1jl8TjxM-RX2SjEjDfiQ4G2ltx017sseMPLzHqiAIJtaNTyRxu2WXAWO8wMA/s1600/IMG_1655.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Entremets passionata, heavy on the cream</td></tr>
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When I got back to my locker my heart sank when I noticed that the lock wasn't on it. I exclaimed, "Oh no! I forgot to lock my locker!" to which a classmate a few lockers down from me replied, "So did I but there's nothing in there worth stealing." Opening the door I saw my lock lying inside with the key still in it, something that I may have done, and although nothing looked unusual I had a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. One quick look confirmed my fears: my cash had been reduced from 80 euros down to 60. My pre-birthday high hit an all-time low--was this locker thief checking my locker during every class? In a world of women who forget to lock up was I the only one getting robbed?</div>
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My thoughts during the disgruntled walk home that night swirled around plans for entrapment. Throughout this ordeal I've kicked myself many times for making stupid mistakes, but the money getting stolen is not my fault--the only person to blame is the thief and she needs to be stopped. Yes, putting on my lock correctly and actually locking it would be wise, but it doesn't solve the problem because there will probably be more times that I forget or someone else will become a victim. It's possible that I've been watching too many British crime dramas, but if <a href="http://www.pbs.org/wgbh/masterpiece/programs/inspector-lewis/" target="_blank">Lewis, Hathaway</a>, and <a href="http://www.pbs.org/wgbh/masterpiece/programs/endeavour/" target="_blank">Morse</a> can solve the daily murders at Oxford then I certainly should be able to catch a locker thief. As with the other thefts, though, the Lord took care of this one with a special birthday gift that evening. Actually, these thefts have just about turned a profit for me from some philanthropic friends and family (but I still want to catch the crook).</div>
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<i><u>Thursday</u></i></div>
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With my first and only class of the day not starting until 12:30 I had plenty of time to prepare my birthday breakfast (I also woke up early--couldn't sleep well with my brain scheming). The afternoon before I had done a test run on the percolator with great success, but when I opened up the cabinet to get out the coffee I saw my little box of cream as well--I had absentmindedly stuck it back in the cabinet on Wednesday after using it. While I can drink coffee black in an emergency, I was not about to be so easily defeated. Quickly changing out of my pajamas, donning my glasses, and giving the mirror a quick check to make sure that I didn't have anything like streaks of drool on my face, I ran to the little store down the street and found just what I needed. Rounding out my meal with a bit of ambiance thanks to the cigarette lighter that I had purchased the day before, I was finally able to sit down to the best breakfast--the first <i>real </i>breakfast--that I've had in almost five months.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5U_A5dLqhm_3Ya6CmzzarofUEAg5MQQXRXM0uTY5oB_wfxzAI7gxtVZ2SmExu2zu4Yr_1CpObRIge6NqJDURQYhdQUsRLp2mcOGWL2bUsjbNRRXtgQZAer2XoJ1GUVVoZQbpvMrPqnA/s1600/FullSizeRender.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5U_A5dLqhm_3Ya6CmzzarofUEAg5MQQXRXM0uTY5oB_wfxzAI7gxtVZ2SmExu2zu4Yr_1CpObRIge6NqJDURQYhdQUsRLp2mcOGWL2bUsjbNRRXtgQZAer2XoJ1GUVVoZQbpvMrPqnA/s1600/FullSizeRender.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Just waiting for the waitress to come refill my coffee</td></tr>
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It was still early by the time that I finished and I decided to make my birthday cookies right then. Back in the olden' days when I had a real job at an office, birthdays were synonymous with office treats. It would be the first time in twelve years that coworkers wouldn't be bringing me goodies, so my only option was to turn the tables. Not having any measuring cups or scales, I used the studio's whiskey glasses and made rough approximations. The no-bakes turned out quite nicely in the end--a little flat, but every bit as tasty as I remembered them. Reserving only four to keep at home (not counting the one or two that I had already eaten), I bagged up the rest to share among my classmates.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixC6AwSeAvj4hkKI2rQLu58Xa6Pc__m9IgykI9yoMQy8hKzAZzJDmXtPjr8aNUtRnB5OCQih9nPhV9a14sA3VNQGlm-h-YvZsm9VkbNFfy7ufkHKtu7YY5X-GEnUQoSbOXn7rpx6_YHQ/s1600/IMG_1658.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixC6AwSeAvj4hkKI2rQLu58Xa6Pc__m9IgykI9yoMQy8hKzAZzJDmXtPjr8aNUtRnB5OCQih9nPhV9a14sA3VNQGlm-h-YvZsm9VkbNFfy7ufkHKtu7YY5X-GEnUQoSbOXn7rpx6_YHQ/s1600/IMG_1658.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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Once at school I began freely passing out cookies, even giving one to a French visitor who was curiously eyeing my bag while waiting to go into our cuisine demonstration. She seemed to enjoy the cookies but puzzled over them, unable to identify the "secret" ingredients of oats and peanut butter, two totally foreign concepts in French desserts. I couldn't remember the French word for either one so I was never sure if she managed to figure out the mystery.</div>
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The new chef had his act together a little more for this demonstration although it was still slightly convoluted (though not much worse than what we used to get from Bogen whom, I recently found out, was given the boot). This preparation was focused on Lyon which is well-known for its cuisine, so it was a little surprising that the meal was completely the opposite of extraordinary. The starter was Lyon-style sausage with potatoes, but the sausage casing burst while it was poaching, creating a rather unattractive presentation. I really liked the potatoes, though--they were covered in a vinaigrette that was heavy on the vinegar just the way that I like it. The main course was pike perch dumplings--pike perch mousseline combined with a choux pastry batter and then poached--covered in crayfish (or crawdad for y'all back home) sauce. The crayfish were unfortunately alive prior to cooking them--something to look forward to in practicum. For dessert he made Mardi-Gras fritters, little fried pastries reminiscent of sopapillas only denser and without the accompaniment of honey and cliff divers (<a href="http://www.casabonitadenver.com/" target="_blank">Casa Bonita</a> fans--anyone?).</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwUG1zkwzrDJioFcUvfZ6aJx2f9JNOKiqmHu8J10JSmYnhEtgVK30x8_2-LDbUApVcm_vWDzMKWhpPlfXyOO3lVprvWIP1e9I-SeGjmPm-A7xsZsPbgtfUdHWbhEEMuOViH1QlwP9Ang/s1600/IMG_1661.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwUG1zkwzrDJioFcUvfZ6aJx2f9JNOKiqmHu8J10JSmYnhEtgVK30x8_2-LDbUApVcm_vWDzMKWhpPlfXyOO3lVprvWIP1e9I-SeGjmPm-A7xsZsPbgtfUdHWbhEEMuOViH1QlwP9Ang/s1600/IMG_1661.JPG" height="306" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sausage and potatoes; Pike perch dumplings with crayfish sauce;<br />Mardi-Gras fritters</td></tr>
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Friday was going to be a full day of classes and I really wanted my cream of tartar--I was attempting to make a substitute for corn syrup so that I could make peanut brittle because 1) corn syrup is hard to find over here and 2) it's supposed to be really bad for you. As it turns out, you still need it to make really good microwave peanut brittle... Anyhow, a chef advised me to try Bon Marché which was indeed a really huge, fabulous store--almost more like a mall--but they didn't sell cream of tartar. They did, however, have three sections labelled as "USA" containing all foods that France equates with Americans for about three times the price: <a href="http://www.kraftbrands.com/CheezWhiz/" target="_blank">Cheez Whiz</a>, <a href="http://www.heinz.com/health-wellness/focus-foods/dietary-preferences/kosher.aspx" target="_blank">Heinz hot dog relish</a>, <a href="http://www.youknowyouloveit.com/" target="_blank">Kraft Macaroni & Cheese</a>, <a href="http://www.grandmasmolasses.com/" target="_blank">Grandma's Molasses</a>, and yes, even <a href="http://www.karosyrup.com/" target="_blank">Karo corn syrup</a> (I didn't buy any since my mind was set on making the substitution). I did manage to score some <a href="http://www.armandhammer.com/deodorization/baking-soda/landing.aspx" target="_blank">Arm & Hammer baking soda</a> at least.</div>
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<i><u>Friday</u></i></div>
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Our pastry written exam began at 8:30 AM. I spent an hour or two studying for it the night before, but my motivation was low--as we learned from basic, the written exam counts for only 10% of the overall grade, but the overall grade is meaningless--the only way to pass intermediate is to get over 50% on both the practicums and the final exam. As we also knew from basic, many questions would border on ridiculous--passing remarks that chefs might have made in demonstrations. No, I didn't know the name of the man who first made Baba au Rhum nor did I know what the other ingredient (besides sodium bicarbonate) in baking soda was... or that there even <i>was</i> another ingredient. My confidence was pretty good for probably over half of the questions, though, and within 30 minutes I was back to running around Paris looking for cream of tartar, this time heading straight for G. Detou. Because most of the pastry and cooking stores are located in the same neighborhood, I took the opportunity to stop in at at <a href="http://www.labovida.com/" target="_blank">Bovida</a> and buy a piping tip to replenish one that I had lost.</div>
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After taking an early lunch back at the studio, I joined my classmates to make the pike perch dumplings. Our fist task was to prepare the crayfish by first grasping the middle fan on their tails and pulling out their intestines. Unfortunately that was only enough to torture them but not to kill them, and they would become extremely agitated, flapping their tails and grabbing at us with their claws. To finish them off we threw them into a pan of hot oil where they took approximately five minute to finish dying. If you ever want to witness something unusual, walk into a classroom of eight students all apologizing or sadly yelling, "Hurry up and die!" to large pans of crayfish.</div>
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Once the crayfish finally finished cooking to death, we twisted the tails off from the torso, throwing the latter back into the pan for the sauce where we proceeded to smash them to bits with a rolling pin. After peeling the tails to get out the rather paltry amount of meat that remained, we moved on to the pike perch mousseline. Someone had already filleted the fish for us and we needed to remove only the pin bones and skin. Going back to my knife kit to get my fish tweezers, I discovered that not only were they missing, but so was my pastry crimper that had been nested inside of the fish tweezers. That was the last proverbial straw--invading my wallet to get out money was one thing, but pulling out my knife kit and selecting utensils was somehow in my mind far worse. The school doesn't provide fish tweezers in our knife kit, but the chefs do expect us to have a pair and I made a special trip out to <a href="http://eshop.e-dehillerin.fr/" target="_blank">Dehillerin</a> in basic to get some--they were a lifesaver when I pulled the sea bream fillets on my final exam.</div>
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My dish turned out mediocre--the dumplings were cooked well but my sauce was too bland--but I hardly cared. Sitting in the next cuisine demonstration class my mind mulled over more schemes about how to catch the thief. We had a guest chef to start the class--an MOF (<i>Meilleur Ouvrier de France</i> or Best Craftsman in France) butcher was there to demonstrate how to cut up a lamb. He was the most interesting-looking man--almost cartoonish or how one might draw a caricature of a stereotypical Frenchman--but he was an amazing craftsman, making the process look incredibly easy and completing it in about 90 minutes. He also had beautiful hands and manicured nails, a feature that struck me as odd because I was actually checking to see if he was missing any fingertips.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNnAf_xDhkp6R9YKnIuXTzGfw9PQmUzSJYt-2SaaBvkwNBNNm2Zg-EwuSahy-RkKmL6PxnXF3KK8ri6Nc5wE5tTnjv3tJqvQCihi5QZzPNhHVBaBFfJcVUCRu0AaZpvX8dfjQiJYvlLg/s1600/IMG_1670.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNnAf_xDhkp6R9YKnIuXTzGfw9PQmUzSJYt-2SaaBvkwNBNNm2Zg-EwuSahy-RkKmL6PxnXF3KK8ri6Nc5wE5tTnjv3tJqvQCihi5QZzPNhHVBaBFfJcVUCRu0AaZpvX8dfjQiJYvlLg/s1600/IMG_1670.JPG" height="400" width="298" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Butcher Thierry Michaud (the striped collar is reserved only for MOF recipients)</td></tr>
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Chef Poupard took over the last half of the class to make the main course of lamb fillet stuffed with dates, apricots, and rosemary and couscous with golden raisins, currants, pistachios, and hazelnuts. For dessert he whipped up a frozen catalan cream that I never had the opportunity to taste because our pastry demonstration was beginning. I was, however, quite excited at the prospect of making this delicious meal.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPoZDqkn3UxAPGRv_hjGHeLfjPWa-d-oyEw-pAFQ3oEuUc6LeM3GnSSWWsdxiggqkyPN0cfsxdKhniHeq2relxT4IPTzQQGTmETMC8jySSj2Vt3oLwuDDmIEziWEs0ZsHwvG2-Pl1JTA/s1600/IMG_1674.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPoZDqkn3UxAPGRv_hjGHeLfjPWa-d-oyEw-pAFQ3oEuUc6LeM3GnSSWWsdxiggqkyPN0cfsxdKhniHeq2relxT4IPTzQQGTmETMC8jySSj2Vt3oLwuDDmIEziWEs0ZsHwvG2-Pl1JTA/s1600/IMG_1674.JPG" height="201" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Stuffed lamb fillet & couscous; Catalan cream</td></tr>
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The walnut cake was the last recipe on our final exam list. The bottom consisted of a biscuit sponge cake with chopped walnuts--a nice change from the usual almonds, hazelnuts, and pistachios. The main focus of the demonstration, though, was on making caramel. The mousse, imbibing syrup, and glaze for the cake had a caramel base and Cotte was making soft caramel candies as well. Having inherited whatever gene that my mom possesses that craves caramel, I loved this demonstration (the decorative macarons didn't hurt, either). I'm actually a little worried about the consequences of knowing how to make caramel from scratch now.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjscI0F7CwMlkfEnfeW-54g68ZRmoxY0ISuAD6WSfElFLqluEndOfq2c0VzSqjX3x7Ufu-w_FxGXwWeXlOQFUlyohyphenhyphenV4QthALnVhxIevHxWSsRLu10F-JeNSU3FHHqHbgdGwY716aPZbw/s1600/IMG_1678.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjscI0F7CwMlkfEnfeW-54g68ZRmoxY0ISuAD6WSfElFLqluEndOfq2c0VzSqjX3x7Ufu-w_FxGXwWeXlOQFUlyohyphenhyphenV4QthALnVhxIevHxWSsRLu10F-JeNSU3FHHqHbgdGwY716aPZbw/s1600/IMG_1678.JPG" height="285" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Walnut mousse cakes; Salted butter and chocolate caramels</td></tr>
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<i><u>Saturday</u></i></div>
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We began the morning by making the walnut cakes in our practicum. My caramel base came out perfectly on the first attempt and the mousse whipped up beautifully. I didn't have to make the macarons because we were sharing three batches between the entire class, but my cake came together without a hitch and for once I was even pleased with my decorations. At the end as Chef Daniel evaluated it he said, "Good mousse, nice glaze, simple but attractive decoration... Very good work today." Three for three in pastry practicums in one week was some kind of new record for me (even if one of the three was secretly messed up) and for the first time this semester I felt a little optimistic about the final exam in two weeks.</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIABIUvlaKdJhTR84mS3VXFPf5IR-XDWBVYE7YRwXWTue22SDc-wTCkaDyhmgXSbWm5lKadLaOvhGRpFIuKsfqChn55GCLlPfyb6h2pJxCp2WMeuje6EVQBKzrtRbs9JEBbf5WZAn41w/s1600/IMG_1680.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIABIUvlaKdJhTR84mS3VXFPf5IR-XDWBVYE7YRwXWTue22SDc-wTCkaDyhmgXSbWm5lKadLaOvhGRpFIuKsfqChn55GCLlPfyb6h2pJxCp2WMeuje6EVQBKzrtRbs9JEBbf5WZAn41w/s1600/IMG_1680.JPG" height="400" width="391" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My Walnut cake</td></tr>
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<br /><div>
The written exam for cuisine was scheduled for 12:30. If my motivation for studying for the pastry exam was low, it was almost non-existent for cuisine. Chef Poupard, a.k.a., Map Chef, had written the exam and we knew that the questions would be almost entirely about the different regions of France. I used the hour-and-a-half between the practicum and the exam to look over my notes, but it felt more like studying for a geography test--I wasn't sure if we should know the capitals of each region, if we should be able to locate them on the map, or if we should study only the foods associated with each one. The last option made the most sense but seemed impossible--the 19 regions covered had scores of meats, produce, principal dishes, desserts, wines, and cheeses listed, many of them overlapping from one region to the next. I tried to pick out what might be the most specialized foods from each region but even that was hard to determine. The test did not disappoint my expectations, either--on the matching sections in particular I was making my selections based primarily on what sounded like a good ordering of the letters A through E. Statistically speaking, though, I figured that I should get at least a 25% (more True/False would have brought that up).</div>
<div>
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<div>
The last order of the day was to make the lamb fillets in our cuisine practicum. A new chef--one who shadowed our practicum class a couple of weeks ago--was in charge and when I asked for some help on how to trim my fillet he ended up doing almost the entire thing for me. That allowed me to get a considerable lead for once to the point that my classmates were asking with a little too much shock in their voice when I began to plate, "You're already finished?" As a matter of fact, I was one of the first to finish and had only to wait for the chef to evaluate the two students who got his attention first before he tested mine. His only critique was that in the presentation I should cut the meat into smaller slices, but he said that it was cooked well, all of the seasoning was good, and my jus was perfect, and he finished with a, "Very good work today." As if the day couldn't get any more bizarre, his final remark as he was evaluating the last student's plate was, "Everyone today made a sauce instead of a jus... every person but one," while pointing to me. Perhaps the collective gasp in the room should have been insulting, but I was quite pleased.</div>
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<i><u>Sunday</u></i></div>
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<div>
Although I think the whole "spring forward, fall back" time change is completely ludicrous, I woke up early feeling quite refreshed and even made myself another "American" breakfast. At church I met the Nutzes who had come to Paris with the rest of the retirees from last weekend but had stayed over longer to visit with their daughter. Mrs. Nutz handed me a bag from Jean Martin explaining that it was a "little" something from both the travel group and my <a href="http://www.hamptonpark.org/" target="_blank">Hampton Park</a> Life Group back home. Jean had told me that some of the retirees wanted to give me their extra unspent euros before they left so I was expecting a few coins, but inside the bag were 240 euros--one person alone that I had only met last Saturday evening had put in 100 euros. I was overwhelmed with gratitude, wondering how I could possibly thank all of these people for their kindness and generosity. The <i>pièce de résistance</i>, though, was the little plate that some of the ladies had found in a gift shop and that automatically achieved the sentimental status usually reserved only for my mugs. I'm not really sure how they even knew what it said:</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdm6CXA4DffWfKLcDuRiLiMOSwKA-1LZZsfKAh-JEndPry7AOGitxc1-blllrtVXTcuSNxGF_24_s6dG44WQYA_d6euLpO5hsIzxsyjgtMI9hsE7Beg7zjQcLurvmgIhyphenhyphenwxnmI-EJoRQ/s1600/IMG_1684.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdm6CXA4DffWfKLcDuRiLiMOSwKA-1LZZsfKAh-JEndPry7AOGitxc1-blllrtVXTcuSNxGF_24_s6dG44WQYA_d6euLpO5hsIzxsyjgtMI9hsE7Beg7zjQcLurvmgIhyphenhyphenwxnmI-EJoRQ/s1600/IMG_1684.JPG" height="368" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"I never put my elbows on the table"</td></tr>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15818532587630238644noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7055176771372598926.post-69721877362163876632014-10-20T03:48:00.001-07:002014-10-20T03:48:44.064-07:00Intermediate Week Seven<div>
A few times this week I had to answer the question, "How do you feel that you're doing in school?" Usually my verbal reply is something like, "Getting by," or "Not too badly, I hope" while the first phrases in my head are things like, "In over my head," or "Out of my league." I never expected to be the best and a while ago I abandoned the idea of "really good"--right now I'm hanging my hopes on "good enough to pass" or "finish without being the person about whom the chefs will tell threatening stories to their students for years to come," but after this week I wondered if even that was aiming too high.</div>
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<i><u>Monday</u></i><br />
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<div>
Such plans I had for my Monday off--maybe a day trip to Strasbourg to see if I could find any fall color or a visit to Normandy to visit <a href="http://www.normandie-tourisme.fr/articles/omaha-beach-338-2.html" target="_blank">Omaha Beach</a> finally--but a late night of <a href="https://www.apple.com/mac/facetime/" target="_blank">FaceTime</a> with a friend coupled with the perpetual feeling of being too exhausted to have fun kept me holed up in my studio all day. The only thing that inspired me to change out of my pajamas was a minor emergency: my newest favorite meal is fried eggs served over baguette slices soaked and fried in salted butter (French culture has grown me to love runny egg yolks spilling all over my food--pizzas, sandwiches, toast, etc.), so when I realized that I wouldn't have a baguette for breakfast the next morning I threw on my "workout" clothes and hightailed it across the street to <a href="http://www.maison-kayser.com/en/" target="_blank">Eric Kayser</a>.</div>
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<i><u>Tuesday</u></i></div>
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After waking up blissfully late and leisurely enjoying my fried eggs and baguette breakfast, I headed to school to make the Mediterranean Scorpion fish and John Dory fillet Provençal stew (<i>bouillabaisse</i>) from Saturday's demonstration. For 16 weeks I have managed to keep my uniform jackets and aprons stain-free--everything has washed out of them--but apparently the black filth contained inside of a scorpion fish is impenetrable... and it splatters a lot. This fish also had sharp fins--after class I counted about seven puncture wounds (some may have been attributable to my fillet knife). The John Dory, however, though kind of large and unattractive, was probably the easiest fish that I've prepared so far--it practically divides itself into 6 beautiful fillets. Chef thought that my soup lacked enough saffron and she was worried about my timing (I barely finished on time and this dish is in our final exam list), but I wasn't too concerned--I figured out where I could rearrange my order of preparation and buy myself several more minutes. As a matter of fact, this is one dish that I <i>hope </i>to get in the exam.</div>
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<div>
Changing into a clean jacket, I joined the pastry students for our demonstration with Chef Tranchant on wild strawberry and vanilla treasure and pistachio dacquoise. It followed the stereotypical French pastry formula: sponge cake + mousse + pastry cream. The strawberry mousse was quite nice, though, and possibly for the first time I actually liked the taste of the cake by itself (and it wasn't even imbibed with syrup!). The pistachio dacquoise was under-impressive--just a cake covered in, naturally, pistachio cream.</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiD8ipKyFYsohls6CY4_D93_PrRIUKfEbRXRIhRO9aKeqiCk4m5Zie97c1WNDeM3IJZvNXDKMQHzVwNhXVkq2Rcq140iDciln-oX7rExwYDfoGAiPSdYFh8odjtsBMdWh4ruAEyMA_jJA/s1600/IMG_1590.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiD8ipKyFYsohls6CY4_D93_PrRIUKfEbRXRIhRO9aKeqiCk4m5Zie97c1WNDeM3IJZvNXDKMQHzVwNhXVkq2Rcq140iDciln-oX7rExwYDfoGAiPSdYFh8odjtsBMdWh4ruAEyMA_jJA/s1600/IMG_1590.JPG" height="325" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Wild strawberry vanilla "treasure"; Pistachio dacquoise</td></tr>
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<i><u>Wednesday</u></i></div>
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<div>
Our only class of the day was a morning practicum to make the wild strawberry cake. It started off with a hiccup--we ran out of ground almonds just as I was ready to use them and I had to wait about five minutes for the class assistant to bring more (he was busy finishing his dacquoise)--but I managed to catch up by the time that we were ready to add the mousse and I was actually one of the first people to finish my cream layer. For the decoration we had to sprinkle the cakes with sugar and then caramelize it with a blow torch. If I had looked back at the picture from the demonstration I would have remembered that the chef's cake was hardly colored, but instead I attacked my cream with vigor, nearly blackening half of it and almost catching the cake on fire. A little glaze and several berries later it looked almost decent, and the chef didn't act as if it were too bad. My mound also appeared a bit lopsided and wider than the other cakes, but even that didn't seem to phase him (although Tranchant tends to be secretive with his evaluation marks).</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPrQyP4WPipWaL0AN6qtvMNCy8k94vJpiUZjxPpDg5bz_tlIWbR2mHREE61UrzcVuk1cJeOYwLzDCkvJc2d9V0XwEaZONcbojSLdQ784Y_-l9A0jPjU2stZ9KCO6DUv0aLoNYVDaz_MA/s1600/IMG_1594.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPrQyP4WPipWaL0AN6qtvMNCy8k94vJpiUZjxPpDg5bz_tlIWbR2mHREE61UrzcVuk1cJeOYwLzDCkvJc2d9V0XwEaZONcbojSLdQ784Y_-l9A0jPjU2stZ9KCO6DUv0aLoNYVDaz_MA/s1600/IMG_1594.JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My slightly-blackened, giant-mounded cake</td></tr>
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<i><u>Thursday</u></i></div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
The morning demonstration was one that I had been excitedly anticipating--Toulouse cassoulet, a sort of white bean stew with tomatoes, lamb, duck, and sausages. For one thing, we had never done anything with beans before and I absolutely love beans (especially black beans, but I can probably abandon any hope of finding them on a French menu). Cassoulets also have the reputation as being a fabulous dish, and I liked the idea of making something that didn't require cleaning fish or birds. Chef was focusing on the southern coastal Languedoc region of France, so the starter was a salted cod purée with garlic and parsley cream and tapenade gressini. This was one fish purée that I actually enjoyed--it sort of had a creamy tuna salad feel. For dessert he made a tasty apricot and fig gratin. Another food that I've come to appreciate since coming to France is the fig, particularly fig preserves with whatever baguette slices aren't covered in egg yolk.</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8J7h1BMb30E26B0AWp_OK44fvZ1Zs71xuw-meCPSMCv8xzo0N2STfryladwwp4j8Yer6H_pQpQOSO7Kq8TpiDfyLj2JTRVWEKhPARwGr1rlpeomlHwbnNUbtcYM3LAszihJYxKtG1Jw/s1600/IMG_1599.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8J7h1BMb30E26B0AWp_OK44fvZ1Zs71xuw-meCPSMCv8xzo0N2STfryladwwp4j8Yer6H_pQpQOSO7Kq8TpiDfyLj2JTRVWEKhPARwGr1rlpeomlHwbnNUbtcYM3LAszihJYxKtG1Jw/s1600/IMG_1599.JPG" height="400" width="381" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cassoulet; Salted cod <span style="font-size: small; text-align: start;">purée; Apricot and fig gratin</span></td></tr>
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<div>
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<div>
During the three-hour break between the demonstration and our practical, I went home and dutifully typed up my recipe before going back to school. We had one of the newer chefs for the second time--he doesn't speak any English but he's quite helpful... maybe a little too much. While I was sharpening my knife on the steel rod he said, "No, no, no!" and proceeded to stand behind me and take both of my hands in his as we awkwardly sharpened my knife together. Four months ago I might have found it surprising and slightly more embarrassing, but I've learned that it's just the French way--he had an arm around every woman in the class before it was over. Being a fan of classic movies and TV shows, I often mentally place the French male in the 1945 office atmosphere where a man would casually refer to a female secretary as "doll" or "sweetheart" and nobody would blink an eye.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The cassoulet wasn't supposed to be a difficult dish but it's also not something that should be prepared in two-and-a-half hours--the beans should cook slowly for a long time to absorb the flavors and the lamb should cook for hours until it's fall-off-the-bone tender--so we already knew that we weren't making the best cassoulets ever. This chef also wanted us to do things completely differently than the chef in demonstration, causing all of my pre-class organization to fly out the window in a manner of speaking. To make matters worse, I burned my pan of diced tomatoes and onions and could use only about half of them, which weakened the flavor in the already flavorless soup. Instead of plating our cassoulets we were putting them in foil pans so that we could sprinkle the finished product with breadcrumbs and give them a final bake in the pastry oven. After placing down the first layer of beans I turned to retrieve my lamb meat from the stove only to discover that a classmate had thrown it away. It was my fault--she wanted the strainer that I was using and I told her I was through with it, not remembering that the lamb was still inside--but I managed to scrounge a couple of pieces from some classmates. My evaluation, though disappointing, was hardly surprising.</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXfC1gxmA_bBArZEtNyOwqYVeW0Z83c5srZXR_sGG_Ppr2eH8EZ_EAQF2ZuEpIjN0MO1YCLMsufq_E5PBoH_qo-2M405LJZokc7sp0NWrhdpDT58VCIaqH2woAnmE0oaZ0x5MnUDIKuQ/s1600/IMG_1607.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXfC1gxmA_bBArZEtNyOwqYVeW0Z83c5srZXR_sGG_Ppr2eH8EZ_EAQF2ZuEpIjN0MO1YCLMsufq_E5PBoH_qo-2M405LJZokc7sp0NWrhdpDT58VCIaqH2woAnmE0oaZ0x5MnUDIKuQ/s1600/IMG_1607.JPG" height="400" width="335" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Somewhat bland cassoulet</td></tr>
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<div>
<i><u>Friday</u></i></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Because it was only a four-day class week, Friday was jammed with four back-to-back classes. Chef Poupard started off the morning with a chestnut mousse cake and chestnut barquettes demonstration. The cake was composed of three layers of hazelnut dacquoise cake, chestnut mousse, and candied chestnut pieces. Chef then covered the outside in chestnut cream "spikes" which reminded him of a girl he saw with spiked hair which segued into a talk about the cause and necessity of teenage rebellion (pastry chefs usually have a lot of time to kill when they're doing things like piping a million spikes on four identical cakes). It led me to think that he chose the right profession as opposed to say, psychology. The barquettes were simply sweet pastry dough baked with almond cream and covered in the same chestnut cream. The final step for both pastries (and something that should make Monday's practicum interesting) was spraying them with chocolate using an actual <a href="http://www.wagnerspraytech.com/" target="_blank">Wagner paint sprayer</a>.</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7UG4erFpzw1OQPxsprXXtyxnjlSPDU2T00Swd238CzKNGnJjgfzrlQv92uFpSD6-_u8409HB3Ov5IjTBUSc3cWOQ2FG3BMQ-aP0-6Xy4McuLOyVcfS3haKwdPb87PCGOqvUHewoRaBw/s1600/IMG_1609.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7UG4erFpzw1OQPxsprXXtyxnjlSPDU2T00Swd238CzKNGnJjgfzrlQv92uFpSD6-_u8409HB3Ov5IjTBUSc3cWOQ2FG3BMQ-aP0-6Xy4McuLOyVcfS3haKwdPb87PCGOqvUHewoRaBw/s1600/IMG_1609.JPG" height="140" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Chestnut mousse cake; Chestnut barquettes</td></tr>
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<div>
<br />
After lunch we joined Chef Vaca in a cuisine demonstration on the region of Brittany. He made roasted langoustines and Brittany artichoke salad for the starter before moving on to the main course of Monkfish wrapped in bacon with braised artichokes and broccoli and cauliflower <i>pannequets</i> (a sort of pancake made with yeast)--naturally the one time that we use broccoli we bury it in batter. For dessert he made prune flans that were actually more similar to souffles and quite delicious. </div>
<div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKtwZKTwyo5MPxnR2WApiC25G8KyA-UkzkSeGT8aSEWNx2n0kAj017nO2_7PeKuE_8s9sKmMy9wIHLMhXs1WJtXyakBoVaepBbbdsZgSQUkKzs5bg6zrdjvw0iTmH3CAPBCSxQrjHLRQ/s1600/IMG_1614.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKtwZKTwyo5MPxnR2WApiC25G8KyA-UkzkSeGT8aSEWNx2n0kAj017nO2_7PeKuE_8s9sKmMy9wIHLMhXs1WJtXyakBoVaepBbbdsZgSQUkKzs5bg6zrdjvw0iTmH3CAPBCSxQrjHLRQ/s1600/IMG_1614.JPG" height="350" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Roasted langoustines and artichoke salad; Monkfish wrapped in<br />
bacon served over pannequets with braised artichokes; Prune flan</td></tr>
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<div>
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<div>
At 3:30 we had our pastry theory class on ice creams. After already sitting through six hours of classes that day I was hoping for something that would keep me awake, but the chef spent two hours reading internet printouts on the history and types of ice, ice creams, and sorbets. While I love ice cream, listening to someone lecture on it for that long without so much as a sample felt like some kind of horrible torture. I did learn a few interesting facts, though. For example, did you know that Americans consume 23 gallons of ice cream per year on average? Yes, the French chefs enjoy pointing out our bad eating habits (I may be closer to 50 gallons).<br />
<br />
Our first practical of the day finally came at 6:30. Although it had a lot of components, it was a straightforward recipe that shouldn't take too long... which should have been my first warning. We were in the nicest and largest practicum room, too--fitted with 14 oven/stove units, it provided plenty of room for the eight of us. Someone had already removed the head and intestines from the monkfish so we had only to remove the central bone and the skin. My problems began with the jus--it required that we brown the fish trimmings with chicken wings but chef said mine weren't caramelized enough, then I forgot to degrease the pan before deglazing and it ended up too greasy. The artichokes would have been okay except that chef pointed out some tough bits of stem still attached. Only two of my four pannequets survived being flipped over in the skillet (fortunately, I needed only one to plate).<br />
<br />
The monkfish appeared to be my last hope, but when chef cut into the medallion it was uncooked in the middle. That was a surprise--after searing the fillets I intentionally left them in the oven longer than the demonstration chef recommended just to be on the safe side. Turning with a sigh to turn off my oven I was even more surprised to see that it wasn't on. The problem wasn't that I had forgotten to turn it on; the problem was that I had turned on the oven next to it. What's more amazing is the fact that the two times I opened the oven door--once to put in the fish and once to pull it out--I didn't wonder why the usual blast of heat didn't hit me in the face. My non-functioning brain went one step further by telling me to explain to the chef why my fish was uncooked... as if that made me seem any less incompetent (the look on her face led me to believe that it did not). The whole thing might have been excusable if I hadn't done something similarly idiotic several weeks ago when I plated the uncooked salmon-stuffed cabbage for Chef Caals instead of the one that I had cooked.<br />
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<div>
<i><u>Saturday</u></i></div>
<div>
<br />
Having a free Saturday following my rather stellar performance the day before was an incredible relief. A group of retirees, some who attend my church in Greenville, were visiting Paris and wanted to treat me to dinner and a Seine boat cruise, so after doing laundry, cleaning the studio, and typing up the recipes from Friday's demonstrations, I joined three of the ladies near Pont Saint-Michel. Two of them I had never met before, but I knew Jean Martin well from our Life Group and was absolutely overjoyed to see a familiar face from back home.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNvaSlZY91vTL3LIbVhJ-d_01dsrMhkUdAuDM1b_BZYdtMm12a6430_rlrPxISWK4dw2tUFzGbiNnykHXmvtOD7qiTzsZnrTynWWbnc8Y1QYyVPk8ATfJtL4kx5mIZKi_bakS7LrPy9w/s1600/IMG_1628.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNvaSlZY91vTL3LIbVhJ-d_01dsrMhkUdAuDM1b_BZYdtMm12a6430_rlrPxISWK4dw2tUFzGbiNnykHXmvtOD7qiTzsZnrTynWWbnc8Y1QYyVPk8ATfJtL4kx5mIZKi_bakS7LrPy9w/s1600/IMG_1628.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mrs. Martin had to knock a few kids out of the way to get this shot</td></tr>
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After an early dinner at a small pizza place we still had over an hour to spare, so we strolled a little farther down the street to find coffee and possibly dessert at some place with the ever-elusive public restroom. Everything was crowded but La Gentilhommière looked like it had some available seating inside. One downside of not having access to cellular data on my phone is that I can't use <a href="http://www.tripadvisor.com/Restaurant_Review-g187147-d2719263-Reviews-La_Gentilhommiere-Paris_Ile_de_France.html" target="_blank">TripAdvisor</a>--seeing the reviews and 1.5-star rating might have changed our minds. Our waiter was acting overtly annoyed from the beginning although we weren't doing or ordering anything unusual, but I shrugged it off--I had probably experienced worse. Normally servers visit your table only three times in Paris--to take an order, to deliver the order, and to get your payment--so I was surprised to see him approaching our table after we all had our orders. He muttered something in French while pointing down in the direction of the table in front of me. I had my coffee cup cradled in both hands, so I lifted up my arms to look down where he was pointing. He said, "Oui," with a nod and marched off. Right then it hit me--<i>he was telling me to take my elbows off the table.</i><br />
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Now I may not be the leading expert on table etiquette, but I never chew loudly or with my mouth open, I hold my fork and knife correctly, and I never eat with my elbows on the table. This was just casual conversation and coffee in the late afternoon before Paris dinnertime at a mediocre café that was missing the seat on the toilet in the women's restroom. Still, when in Rome... But as I began looking at the tables around us I saw that they were covered in elbows--a girl at the table across from us was laying her head on her elbow on the table. The ladies with me were bordering on livid, brazenly putting their elbows on the table before quickly removing them, and one in particular was rehearsing the piece of her mind that she was going to give the waiter whenever he came back, but I decided to take the initiative instead. After he took our check I asked him in French (he also pretended off and on not to understand English) if putting elbows on the table was bad. He tentatively nodded yes but then looked at me with a stupid "Huh?" expression on his face so I repeated myself, pointing to all of the tables around me saying, "Like that, and that, and that? Is that against the restaurant rules?" He held up his hand and said, "No, it's not serious," as he turned and left right in the middle of my interrogation.<br />
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We joined about 15 other people by the Pont Neuf to board our evening boat cruise. There I saw some more familiar faces including the Stevesons who usually sit behind me at <a href="http://www.hamptonpark.org/" target="_blank">Hampton Park</a> and who assured me that they were faithfully saving my pew for me. The evening was beautiful and after some final hugs I strolled the 2.5 miles home with a full heart, reflecting on the blessings and encouragement that God brings into my life and looking forward to my quickly approaching return home.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDXsQNJmM6LQz4LpWi_LecG0NT6hbpK3wRxdIryDJgzxgZSueWxY8HuF-r1NqD40Xm3HYTIjzsawPdyxd4HRsfJU3wxIQuFcAyU2OaaGJ1pVQgYW6MAQy8DcrrAZv432yPTcP3gIiEJw/s1600/IMG_1629.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDXsQNJmM6LQz4LpWi_LecG0NT6hbpK3wRxdIryDJgzxgZSueWxY8HuF-r1NqD40Xm3HYTIjzsawPdyxd4HRsfJU3wxIQuFcAyU2OaaGJ1pVQgYW6MAQy8DcrrAZv432yPTcP3gIiEJw/s1600/IMG_1629.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cruising down the Seine</td></tr>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15818532587630238644noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7055176771372598926.post-300977875436177842014-10-12T14:51:00.000-07:002014-10-12T18:18:57.133-07:00Intermediate Week Six<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">First, I'm going to start off with a little PSA. Actually, it's more like begging, except it won't cost you anything! My Facebook friends who already voted can just skip to the next paragraph, but my credit union had a calendar photo contest and I was one of the thirty photos chosen for the finals. The grand prize is only $250, but for a starving student... well, a student without an income, it's a huge deal. I'd promise that angels will visit you or Bill Gates will send you $1000 if you vote, but I trust that you'll do it simply for altruistic reasons. If you're on Facebook, all you need to do is click <a href="http://apps.agorapulse.com/fanVotes/24771/entry/620275?fb_action_ids=10152714283081550&fb_action_types=og.comments&fb_source=other_multiline&action_object_map=%5B870508136323245%5D&action_type_map=%5B%22og.comments%22%5D&action_ref_map=%5B%5D" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">here</span></a>, "Like" Truliant's page, and vote for my photo (Claude Monet House & Gardens). You may be tempted to vote for another photo (the one with the horses is actually my favorite, but they don't need any more affirmation), but it's not about the best photo, it's about... well, me.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">This week was pretty relaxed as class schedules go--only five practicums and six demonstrations spread out fairly smoothly over six days--but a bit on the distressing side. Actually, I figure that I've been in a perpetual state of anxiousness for these past four months. I've probably been under greater pressure before, but not for such an extended period of time. Each day, even the ones where I don't have classes, greets me with nervous butterflies in my stomach. The feeling isn't one of dread, but more like what you get while waiting in a lobby before a job interview or sitting on a stage right before a speech in front of a large crowd or on a roller-coaster as it slowly crests the top of a huge hill right before a big drop. I'm always hopeful that I'll make a good impression, not screw up and embarrass myself, and not go plunging off the edge, but I'm never quite sure how things are going to go. What I do know is that everything sets me off more easily these days--something as little as Andy Williams coming on <a href="https://www.spotify.com/us/" target="_blank">Spotify</a> singing "Moon River" almost put me in the fetal position. Am I soon to become like Mrs. Bennet from <i><a href="http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/1885.Pride_and_Prejudice" target="_blank">Pride and Prejudice</a></i>, just begging people to have "compassion on my poor nerves"? We shall see.</span></div>
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<i><u>Monday</u></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Chef Poupard greeted us first thing Monday morning with Auvergne-region fare: foie gras-glazed pigs' trotters on toast (yes, they are <i>exactly </i>what they sound like), braised cabbage stuffed with veal forcemeat (of course) with a side of daikon radishes, carrots, celery root (real veggies again!), and potatoes, and a sweet apple "flan" and strawberry soup with white pepper. The only part of the meal that I truly enjoyed was the flan which the chef insisted was mislabeled because it was more like a custard. Whatever it was, it was terrific.</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pigs' trotters; Braised stuffed cabbage; Strawberry soup & apple flan </td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Our next demonstration began at 3:30, so after a trip home to iron the rest of my uniforms and to type up my recipe for practicum (yes, I'm still keeping up with that), I joined the pastry students for a demonstration on Baba au Rhum and Kugelhof with Chef Deguignet. It was our first demonstration with this chef although he wasn't unfamiliar to us--he was in charge of our Opéra cake practicum and he frequently walks into other chefs' demonstrations to tell us to be quiet if we ever want to get into superior. Each chef has his own pet-peeve, and Deguignet's is talking. He did a good demonstration, although the Baba au rhum was typical of French pastries--a tasteless cake made edible by soaking it in syrup and covering it in vanilla cream. During this time we also received our pastry final exam recipe list. I immediately identified exactly three of the ten that didn't terrify me. </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifMPa9NCPyOZwbmGRJnwXGCHoLtaXsR64GAvobCpMII_jVzsrmntla-V4z5qGzZbPYhhsY5r1O4zgrHiJu464JNFkp_7k90FOjDn_e_FcXKegBAO0_3brlSv5YZ_ZTjcUC4mXoRb_O3Q/s1600/IMG_1562.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifMPa9NCPyOZwbmGRJnwXGCHoLtaXsR64GAvobCpMII_jVzsrmntla-V4z5qGzZbPYhhsY5r1O4zgrHiJu464JNFkp_7k90FOjDn_e_FcXKegBAO0_3brlSv5YZ_ZTjcUC4mXoRb_O3Q/s1600/IMG_1562.JPG" height="192" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kugelhof; Baba au rhum</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">The basement kitchen chef,"Phil," supervised our practicum on making the braised stuffed cabbage. We hadn't had him in class since we were in basic and I was happy to see him again--he's one chef that always makes me feel at ease even when I mess up. When we did the salmon-stuffed cabbages a few weeks ago we wrapped them in plastic wrap before boiling, but braising requires something less synthetic and more porous such as caul, the membrane surrounding a pig's internal organs. It wasn't one of my favorite dishes, but it was quick and easy (although I overcooked my potato batons and the meat inside of my cabbage was a little too pink).</span></div>
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<i><u><span style="font-family: inherit;">Tuesday</span></u></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">In the morning Chef Caals began the demonstration on the French Riviera cuisine with braised beef and olives, getting our hopes up that we were finally getting to make beef until we realized that we would be doing only the starter in practicum--a galette, which is a sort of puff pastry pizza covered in tomato concassée, black olives, balsamic vinaigrette, and marinated raw sea bass. Caals then made lovely "tulip" cookies with lemon emulsion for dessert. Most of the desserts in our cuisine demonstrations have been more appetizing than anything we make in pastry, but they also tend to be much simpler which is why, I suppose, we will never be making them. At the end of class we received our cuisine final exam recipe list. It wasn't quite as scary as the pastry list but I still quickly identified the less desirable options.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiI0Il1p667Niwg3Kvn4IHowyPZTS3oSMSq4an3cl67YkGpx-dtZW8Z8rY2W0L95if2Dc8WEK3iGdw46wMuvtTkLpvoYOj6NqPdAxaubWDmd2TE9QV7Yh9plgs2yVLB8rjGkkjT7LVEQ/s1600/IMG_1570.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiI0Il1p667Niwg3Kvn4IHowyPZTS3oSMSq4an3cl67YkGpx-dtZW8Z8rY2W0L95if2Dc8WEK3iGdw46wMuvtTkLpvoYOj6NqPdAxaubWDmd2TE9QV7Yh9plgs2yVLB8rjGkkjT7LVEQ/s1600/IMG_1570.JPG" height="282" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Galette with marinated sea bass; Braised beef;<br />
Tulip cookie with lemon emulsion</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Over our lunch break my cuisine practicum group began discussing our game plan for making the sea bass galette. We've transitioned into a more team-centered group to speed things up--one person may take on the task of peeling all of the tomatoes while another person may reduce the balsamic vinaigrette and someone else will roast the peppers and tomatoes for everyone, for example, but it's almost becoming too extreme. For one thing, in the exam we will be working independently and I can certainly use all of the practice that I can get. But more than that, if someone in the chain does something wrong, particularly if it involves seasoning, it could effect everyone's evaluation. I didn't want to be the wet blanket, but I casually tried to suggest that we should each do our own tomato concassée, and I noticed that Dao was vigorously nodding in agreement with a worried look on her face.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">In the end it didn't matter, because while the Korean lady chef normally wouldn't have given it much thought, a new chef was joining our group to observe. Before he came into the room, our chef warned us to be on our best behavior and quickly cut down the teamwork plan. I thought that my concassée was quite good, but my sea bream lacked enough lemon juice--I wouldn't know otherwise because I couldn't bring myself to taste the raw fish. Throwing all of my fish into the trash, I wolfed down the rest of my little galette before heading home.</span></div>
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<i><u><span style="font-family: inherit;">Wednesday</span></u></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Back to that whole perpetual state of nervousness thing--one of the many contributing factors is the question of which chef will greet us in our practicals because it will set the mood for the next three hours. So when I asked, "Do you know who the chef is?" as I joined my pastry group Wednesday evening and a student whispered, "Jordan!" I thought for a moment that he was pulling my leg... because that's actually a really good prank to pull on someone. It wasn't a joke, unfortunately, but Chef Jordan seemed in a much better mood than our first encounter with the Bavarois. That's not to say that he was smiling or being friendly, but he wasn't exactly scowling and calling people stupid, either.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">My cake came out just fine, but my vanilla cream had issues--it was edible but a little too heavy. Chef also stated that my cake wasn't imbibed enough although I wasn't sure how it could have held any more syrup--I could actually squeeze liquid out of it. He didn't make any positive comments but I heard him giving them to other classmates which was a welcome change from the last time. For his closing speech he said, "All the cakes tonight were good and everyone got good marks... <i>almost</i> everyone got good marks," and I caught the quick glance in my direction. Oh well... he's kind of like the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Simon_Cowell" target="_blank">Simon Cowell</a> of patisserie--nobody likes him but a positive remark is like getting a standing ovation (or I'll have to assume that's the feeling for now).</span></div>
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<i><u><span style="font-family: inherit;">Thursday</span></u></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Our only class of the day was a morning demonstration on the Loire Valley cuisine with Chef Caals. In it he made a warm salad with lightly smoked pike perch, rabbit tournedos with prunes, potatoes with cheese, and anjou-style choux fritters with orange cream (again, a dessert that far exceeded the ones in our pastry practicums). The rabbit wasn't half as terrifying as it was when Chef Lesourd introduced it to us in basic--we have handled much worse items in the days since then--but former intermediate students claim that it is the most difficult exam dish. Indeed, Caals spent the first half hour of class just preparing the rabbit which in student terms translates to at least an hour. Unlike the rabbit in basic, this one needed to be carefully deboned prior to cooking in order to stuff it. Still, it didn't look <i>that</i> hard...</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggRLO905lmyxLfxG7y-gxu4VXGFrMOcbW-15TpRWtQ59sz6diVXqvsfxHlfTFE0IkrGyl3Ym6NKFx8eRnjffUyN1oWfjkyxZ6jO4It7mPp7BAVQ9qoFqR3yMiZwav6zp6EK5R5tafs1g/s1600/IMG_1572.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggRLO905lmyxLfxG7y-gxu4VXGFrMOcbW-15TpRWtQ59sz6diVXqvsfxHlfTFE0IkrGyl3Ym6NKFx8eRnjffUyN1oWfjkyxZ6jO4It7mPp7BAVQ9qoFqR3yMiZwav6zp6EK5R5tafs1g/s1600/IMG_1572.JPG" height="360" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Warm salad with smoked pike perch; Rabbit tournedos & cheesy potatoes;<br />
Anjous-style choux fritters with orange cream</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">On my way home I stopped off to get the groceries that I always have to have in stock--apples, butter, eggs, and a baguette. Not having bought anything for a a few days and having a lot of free time on my hands, I pulled up my budget spreadsheet when I got home to enter my purchases and do the regular check of my bank account, credit card, and cash on hand. The last item came up exactly 20<span style="line-height: 107%;">€ short. I've come up short before on my expenses and usually figure it out quickly or in rare cases for small amounts mark it up as a forgotten purchase; this time, however, panic suddenly hit me with a strong sense of déjà-vu. The week before I had marked a 20</span><span style="line-height: 15.6933336257935px;">€ shortage thinking that the ATM must have given me the wrong amount, and the week before that I had marked a 20</span><span style="line-height: 15.6933336257935px;">€ shortage thinking that I didn't get my change back from a restaurant. My first thought was that I was losing my mind--maybe sleepwalking at night and spending money at best and completely losing my memory at worst. I even looked around the studio a few times to see if there were any new items sitting about. It was probably the closest I've come to a complete meltdown since I arrived in Paris--even more than when someone stole my flash drive with all of my life's information on it.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 15.6933336257935px;">After regaining some of my composure I finally decided that I was</span><span style="line-height: 15.6933336257935px;"> </span><span style="line-height: 15.6933336257935px;">(mostly)</span><span style="line-height: 15.6933336257935px;"> sane and that someone must be taking the money from my locker at school--the only place where my purse is not with me. A pickpocket was out of the question--if someone could manage to get in my purse and get out my wallet and take only a 20 while leaving the rest of the money, and do that every week... well, he probably deserves the money for such brilliance. My first course of action, thinking that my lock was compromised, would be to get a new padlock and report the theft to student services in the morning.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 15.6933336257935px;">That evening I watched an episode of <a href="http://www.mst3k.com/" target="_blank">Mystery Science Theater 3000</a> because it never fails to make me laugh out loud and I figured that I could use it. Within the first minute it reminded me of a couple of friends, so I recorded the scene and texted it to them. Soon we were having a three-way conversation that had me smiling and feeling better than </span><span style="line-height: 15.6933336257935px;">watching</span><span style="line-height: 15.6933336257935px;"> </span><span style="line-height: 15.6933336257935px;">any TV show could ever accomplish. Sometime during that conversation one of my friends deposited $100 into my <a href="http://www.paypal.com/" target="_blank">PayPal</a> account, and before the night was over someone else deposited the same amount into my bank account. While it didn't completely relieve the anxiety over the locker mystery, it made me stop and thank God for all the wonderful people that he has put into my life--not just the ones who help me financially, but those who pray for me and encourage me--a treasure that far outweighs stolen money. My last tears for the day were only those of gratitude.</span></span></div>
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<i><u><span style="font-family: inherit;">Friday</span></u></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I didn't have a class until 3:30 but our mid-term evaluation meeting for pastry began at 12:30 so I left early to buy a lock and talk to student services. The only place that I could think of to look for a padlock was at a key shop (how I miss <a href="http://www.walmart.com/" target="_blank">Walmart</a>). The clerk ripped me off by charging 10<span style="line-height: 15.6933336257935px;">€ for a lock that couldn't have been more than 5</span><span style="line-height: 15.6933336257935px;">€--he replied too quickly when I asked the price, took only cash, and just handed me the lock without a receipt--but I was in too big a hurry to install the new lock before something more important was stolen to quibble with him.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 15.6933336257935px;">As I tried to put the lock on my locker I related my story to a classmate a few lockers down. She watched my frustration with the padlock not fitting and said, "You're doing it wrong--look," and proceeded to demonstrate how to properly put it on. Suddenly an idea hit me--I put on the old padlock the wrong way as I had been doing it for the past six weeks and tried turning the lock handle. Sure enough, it rotated just enough to get the door open. Apparently the thief had noticed my error a few weeks ago and was using my locker as her personal ATM, taking just one bill each week in the hopes that I wouldn't notice. I felt a mix of anger for being violated and relief that the perp hadn't decided to go for something more expensive like my knife kit, uniforms, or my entire wallet. My next step was to report it to student services who said, as I guessed they would, that the couldn't do anything about it.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Chef Tranchant had just returned from vacation and was in charge of delivering the grades to us. When I say, "deliver," I mean that when I entered the room he sat watching me as the translator handed me the grade breakdown and asked if I had any questions (I did not). After about 30 seconds I thanked them and left. My grade was 3.316, below the group average of 3.443 but better than what I expected. Out of the ten practicums graded, I remembered only two or three that went well, but this grade was definitely in the "safe" zone for passing practicum. Only the final exam hangs in the balance.</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">A few classmates and I headed to the cheap Chinese restaurant and then to <a href="http://www.starbucks.ca/?gclid=CjwKEAjwzeihBRCQ84bhxrz_0w8SJAAohyh1WEU1b6V1Z3awKXZK_KKK_mqVCIj3KzffzSYKq_x-kxoC9gTw_wcB" target="_blank">Starbucks</a> to fill in the gap before our 3:30 demonstration. [<i>In case you're wondering, yes, their caramel maccchiato IS as good in France as in America.</i>] I had been looking forward to this class ever since we got our recipe folders--savory petit-fours. After five weeks of being up to our elbows in chocolates, creams, and syrups, "savory"sounded fabulous. Starting with an inverted puff pastry dough, Tranchant made little pizzas, cheese straws, and pastries stuffed with chorizo, meat pâté, sausage links (i.e., pigs in a blanket), and salmon and dill. As a bonus, the chorizo was actually a bit spicy--a rare treat in France.</span></div>
<div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipeDvRALi7EPgMyvYhiNweocnwkaV0cwlWFmHadVe-RHvsM0p4oQ36UV-9XWGYSDRD2YD9edTQZLL6UGxcXdf0kuiCoNzlqaya1Ffe7lX7JALB9noL1FkuE8S_r8AoCGtL3XBcYk0Tqw/s1600/IMG_1580.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipeDvRALi7EPgMyvYhiNweocnwkaV0cwlWFmHadVe-RHvsM0p4oQ36UV-9XWGYSDRD2YD9edTQZLL6UGxcXdf0kuiCoNzlqaya1Ffe7lX7JALB9noL1FkuE8S_r8AoCGtL3XBcYk0Tqw/s1600/IMG_1580.JPG" height="220" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Salmon palms; Pâté-filled pastries; Chorizo pastries;<br />
Pigs in a blanket; Pizzas; Cheese straws</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<i><u><span style="font-family: inherit;">Saturday</span></u></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The consequence of a slow week at school was that Saturday was the biggest schedule slam. We started at 12:30 making the rabbit tournedos with one of the nameless chefs that speaks only French. As he "helped" me debone my rabbit leg (he actually did the whole thing) he looked at me and said something about a <i>chapeau</i>. I gave him a puzzled look and repeated, "Chapeau?" while patting the one on my head... which actually wasn't there, nor was my hairnet--I had completely forgotten them. By the time I ran downstairs and came back he was almost finished.</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Even with his assistance we didn't finish preparing our rabbits for over an hour. Apart from carefully deboning one leg and the saddles we still had to caramelize the bones for the sauce and make the stuffing--a mix of the meat from the other hind leg, chopped prunes, mushrooms, and parsley. The cheesy potatoes were simple at least--the assistants had put them in to bake at the start of class, so we had only to halve them, scrape out the centers, mix them with goat cheese, butter, and scallions, and rebake them in the skin. We could hear the next class waiting outside for us to finish and even the dishwashers were telling us to hurry. I finished my plate by 3:20 (on the exam that would be 20 minutes late--a deduction of 40 percentage points), but the chef said that all of it was good--the meat, stuffing, potatoes, and sauce--so I just need to work on speed.</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Most of our group arrived to class about five minutes late but Chef Caals let it slide under the circumstances. He was focusing on the Provence region of France, a southern coastal region, so he of course introduced seafood recipes. The starter was a baby calamari salad, the main course was Mediterranean Scorpion fish and John Dory fillets in Provençal fish stew, and dessert was a Menton lemon and candied orange tart.</span></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_j7fHUQcCEU6xSy0ROukrPfBEKEgnZyV_7os9quJPg6IJiB1zLF_NCXcuSD6BzCJkHelds9vlyAQk-2sSEGUMIniDKBwJAkaKXeZiNtb5Y1qHiLxyJibqPJYpcnNh8GgaUkXEvHUt5g/s1600/IMG_1581.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_j7fHUQcCEU6xSy0ROukrPfBEKEgnZyV_7os9quJPg6IJiB1zLF_NCXcuSD6BzCJkHelds9vlyAQk-2sSEGUMIniDKBwJAkaKXeZiNtb5Y1qHiLxyJibqPJYpcnNh8GgaUkXEvHUt5g/s1600/IMG_1581.JPG" height="272" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Baby calamari salad; Fish stew; Menton lemon & candied orange tart</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Chef Olivier joined us in our pastry practicum to make the savory puff pastries. The inverted puff pastry dough was actually easier to work with than the regular one that we did in basic. A regular puff pastry is made by folding dry butter into a dry dough; an inverted puff pastry is made by kneading flour into the dry butter and layering a wet dough on top of it before doing the turns. After making our dough we divided it into four and made the cheese straws, pigs-in-a-blanket, chorizo-stuffed pastries, and pâte-filled pastries. Olivier declared that everyone did a good job and sent us on our way. These pastries won out over the rabbit as my 9:00 PM dinner of choice.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">--------------------------</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Reflecting back over the week, the hardest lessons that I learned were on love and forgiveness. While I certainly experienced love from others, if I'm honest, that was not my spirit when I thought about the girl who has been stealing from me. There was no love in my heart for her--as a matter of fact, for a couple of days I entertained visions of me catching her and slamming her face into the locker and then shutting the door repeatedly on her head. These imaginings would make me feel better only temporarily, which is I guess how hatred and bitterness work. They may offer some temporary consolation, especially if you can get other people on your side, but they just feed and grow off of such thinking. And why do I feel so angry? If this happened to anyone else but me I'd be sympathetic towards that person but I wouldn't feel that same level of hatred towards the thief. It's a proud and selfish reaction--that because <i>I</i> was the victim it's somehow worse.</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I finally had to remind myself that my sins are just as terrible in God's eyes, including the sin of hatred, yet He forgave me when I asked--sent His Son to die for those sins. The girl stealing from me is a soul that will one day be in hell if she doesn't find the way to Christ. I couldn't wish that on anyone, but loving her still doesn't come naturally. I can't say that I'm quite there yet, but I am forcing myself to add her to my prayers each day--no longer in the context that she'll return my money, but that she'll come to know Christ somehow--and it has helped to bring peace.</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">John 3:16-18: "<span style="background-color: white; line-height: 24px;">For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life. </span><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 24px;">For God sent not his Son into the world to condemn the world; but that the world through him might be saved. </span><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 24px;">He that believeth on him is not condemned: but he that believeth not is condemned already, because he hath not believed in the name of the only begotten Son of God."</span></span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15818532587630238644noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7055176771372598926.post-51533007270829457382014-10-05T15:18:00.001-07:002014-10-05T15:26:47.577-07:00Intermediate Week FiveI have a confession to make: I don't really care for French cuisine. This realization hit me this week while looking back over all of the dishes that we've made so far. Not that I find everything to be repulsive--it's what I've been living on for four months--but given the choice I might order maybe one or two of the items in a restaurant, and more likely avoid the restaurant all together if those were the only menu options. French pastry and I get along a little better although the spongy, somewhat bland cakes covered in various forms of cream can get a little boring (they have no concept of cream cheese frosting). The French have admittedly got some things right, such as the liberal use of butter and fried eggs, and their bread is always amazing, but I'm beginning to understand why French cuisine hasn't taken off in the States where so many others have succeeded.<br />
<br />
That's not to say that this whole experience has been a waste of time or that I plan on subjugating the rest of my life to making food that I don't love. The most important thing that I'm learning is technique, and the proper fusion of French with southern cuisine could prove amazing... just as long as that fusion doesn't involve fish mousse or aspic jellies.<br />
<br />
<i><u>Monday</u></i><br />
<br />
The week began at 8:30 AM with Chef Poupard making marinated sardine fillets as the appetizer, lamb fillet and peppermint jus with potato "noisettes" and a vegetable tian (cooked spinach, tomatoes, and onions) as the main course, and a Parisian-style frozen nougat for dessert. To say that I was excited that we'd be making real vegetables (as opposed to potatoes) for a change would be an understatement.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcHiJ0nlI7Dmx_rWTo_DxQ4fOjBYVtqe6Lp1XP2CM391JY_sHUnd_PVy5vsrT91brJQKgk8yStXt6QJcLIAhwE8KANKGUbpQvJryol5nFUKvjX-05SJVvgWB_SRHtZ3S-PLvJOJ4EWfQ/s1600/IMG_1535.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcHiJ0nlI7Dmx_rWTo_DxQ4fOjBYVtqe6Lp1XP2CM391JY_sHUnd_PVy5vsrT91brJQKgk8yStXt6QJcLIAhwE8KANKGUbpQvJryol5nFUKvjX-05SJVvgWB_SRHtZ3S-PLvJOJ4EWfQ/s1600/IMG_1535.JPG" height="228" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small; text-align: start;">Marinated sardine fillets (with Poupard's signature right angle);<br />Lamb fillet with vegetable tian;<br />Parisian-style frozen nougat</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
The practicum to make the lamb fillet followed after lunch. It was quite possibly the best dish that we've made so far--one that I truly liked. Aside from the tasty vegetables, the meat was great--and that's saying a lot because the only meats that tend to excite me are hamburgers and barbecue. The dish was also incredibly quick and simple to prepare--the meat had only to be cut off the bone and the potatoes were formed with a melon baller--meaning that we shouldn't expect to do this one on the final exam. It lacks the fun technical stuff like cleaning an animal or turning a vegetable.<br />
<br />
<i><u>Tuesday</u></i><br />
<br />
The morning cuisine demonstration with Chef Caals centered on the central Berry region. Like the rest of France, it has the puzzling propensity for making dishes with forcemeat, so Chef began with the Easter pâté--a pie filled with pork jowl, fatback, and veal. The more exciting dish was the the coq en barbouille, more commonly known as coq au vin. We had to settle for chicken rather than rooster and chef mercifully thickened the sauce with potato starch rather than pig blood as the recipe called for. He finished the demonstration with a pear and walnut tart. The addition of black peppercorns to the pears seemed a bit odd, but the end result was amazing.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKqlEb6EtFMQQRZX2jIib0M-3CCJNTXsJ71iC01aIICxvhzZwR4ItbPGNXzAb_-doR7G8Ix7BaYcJevuj77yvElRMPniM3LZkIqda4ZAxSruOfndR4C53Whf1KVnnbjiI7UOhMEvYsPg/s1600/IMG_1541.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKqlEb6EtFMQQRZX2jIib0M-3CCJNTXsJ71iC01aIICxvhzZwR4ItbPGNXzAb_-doR7G8Ix7BaYcJevuj77yvElRMPniM3LZkIqda4ZAxSruOfndR4C53Whf1KVnnbjiI7UOhMEvYsPg/s1600/IMG_1541.JPG" height="340" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small; text-align: start;">Easter pâté; Coq en barbouille; Pear & walnut tart</span></td></tr>
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<br />
The semester's Intermediate Cuisine and Grand Diplome lunch followed the demonstration at <a href="http://www.le-petit-bordelais.fr/en/" target="_blank">Le Petit Bordelais</a>. Remembering my sadly casual attire that stuck out like a sore thumb at the Basic lunch, I had set out a dress and heels at my studio to change into beforehand, but we didn't get out of class until 11:30. The instructions were to be at the restaurant no later than 12:00 because we would begin eating "promptly" at 12:30. Most students had brought their clothes to the school to change into, so I booked it home and threw on my dress before running to the metro.<br />
<br />
By 12:15 I arrived at the address only to find a locked door and no other students anywhere in sight. The street was a small one, so I walked all the way up it and back down, thinking that maybe I had the wrong building number (I couldn't remember the name of the restaurant) or that I had been shut out for being late. The lunch was a requirement, so I broke into a sweat of panic (plus it was kind of hot) as I realized that I didn't have any phone numbers for the school or my classmates. Walking the length of the street again, I turned around to head home when I recognized three classmates approaching the locked door. As it turns out, I was the first person to arrive--before any other students, any of our hosting chefs, and any student service organizers--because in Paris 15 minutes late is still too early.<br />
<br />
The rest of the group slowly trickled in while I got to know my other early-arrival table mates--two of the only French students that I've met at the school and a nineteen-year-old kid from the States whose whole family became expats to France. We had the "tasting menu" which consisted of cod with guacamole, turbot with tomato confit, celery root puree, and tonka beans, Bresse chicken with carrots, and a Napoleon mille-feuille for dessert. The meal began with an aperitif and each course came with a different wine so that by the time dessert arrived I was the only sober person in the room. The meal was disappointing--not as good as our basic lunch on the Seine River boat--but the three bones that I found in my Turbot fillet made me feel a little better about the number that I tend to miss in my practicums.<br />
<br />
<i><u>Wednesday</u></i><br />
<br />
The coq au vin practicum began at 8:30 AM and finished by 10:30 AM--of all our dishes it required the least amount of preparation because the chicken was pre-cut and sitting in the marinade for the past 24 hours. Mid-semester evaluations with the chef were at 12:30, so I took my food home for a quick brunch before heading back to school.<br />
<br />
Most of my group decided to skip evaluations altogether, and when I arrived at the school only two people were ahead of me. Unfortunately, one of those people was Brian. Brian is a nice kid from China who did his basic certificate about two years ago before coming back this semester. His problem is that he asks more questions than a three-year-old child to the point that chefs and translators roll their eyes and students audibly groan and develop almost a mob-like mentality whenever he raises his hand. The questions aren't necessarily dumb, but usually they're irrelevant and time-consuming.<br />
<br />
Brian went into the meeting immediately before me as I stood outside and waited... 30 minutes. A normal meeting takes five minutes. When he finally left and I went in, both Chef Poupard and the translator were laughing and shaking their heads. My grade was less hilarious--3.31 out of 5--passing, but below the class average of 3.33. Poupard pointed out my weakest areas of presentation and organization, but when I replied, "Yes, I'm always last," he just shrugged and said, "Someone is always last and someone is always first--you shouldn't let that bother you."<br />
<br />
I still had over two hours before my next class. I again made the trip home and back before going to our pastry demonstration on milk chocolates. Chef Cotte showed us the art of tempering the chocolate and used it to make muscadines, rochers, pralinés, and mendiants. Except for the mendiants, all of the candy fillings were some combination of mostly chocolate and hazelnut praliné (similar to <a href="http://www.nutellausa.com/" target="_blank">Nutella</a>), but the rochers were my favorite--they contained crispy feuilletine made from crushed Gavotte crepes. Anyone who's had <a href="http://www.ferrerorocherusa.com/" target="_blank">Ferrero Rocher</a> will understand.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnS_5KKV0UYS7c0yXio1F68-4g0R7WKE681yg9uWyz3rpl9j_Y9Ho-Zjq4cNDMtyJCPCWaTXWS7vbK1o0UXDY-aHze64IETjhH1eeLL3b0ydyYrjDeNcmS-JJlz94GAr7z3lFUIvAodw/s1600/IMG_1544.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnS_5KKV0UYS7c0yXio1F68-4g0R7WKE681yg9uWyz3rpl9j_Y9Ho-Zjq4cNDMtyJCPCWaTXWS7vbK1o0UXDY-aHze64IETjhH1eeLL3b0ydyYrjDeNcmS-JJlz94GAr7z3lFUIvAodw/s1600/IMG_1544.JPG" height="305" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small; text-align: start;">Muscadine; Rochers; Pralinés; Mendiants</span></td></tr>
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<br />
In the pastry practicum that followed we were making only the muscadine and praliné chocolates. While we waited outside the kitchen classroom Chef Jordan (a.k.a., mean chef) walked by and we all exchanged looks that said, "Oh, please, no." The last thing that anyone wanted to attempt with Jordan was chocolate tempering, so when sweet old Chef Walter came up a minute later he actually received some applause and I had to resist the urge to hug him. He ended up doing most of the work for me by "helping" with everything, and my chocolate come out perfectly. I also finished really early. Perhaps I should have been insulted when a classmate sounded overly surprised as she exclaimed, "You're finished so early!" or when Chef declared my chocolates to be the prettiest and people gasped and clapped, but I kind of beamed the whole way home. Chef's doing or not, the grade could only help the terrifying mid-semester evaluation in pastry next week.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfuvH3OiqJGQiHYkRt0WBvSb79q79ynbAFqJ5_mMN0HW6CxMmxLAOD9JGhHha1-WYQaEd0EF7enht04kMmT2V2b9VoC80AVJhiZay7i2L4urJEQnPbHyb-Bykwcwlk8W8IHomL06oNLA/s1600/IMG_1548.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfuvH3OiqJGQiHYkRt0WBvSb79q79ynbAFqJ5_mMN0HW6CxMmxLAOD9JGhHha1-WYQaEd0EF7enht04kMmT2V2b9VoC80AVJhiZay7i2L4urJEQnPbHyb-Bykwcwlk8W8IHomL06oNLA/s1600/IMG_1548.JPG" height="201" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My (slightly chef-assisted) muscadines and pralinés</td></tr>
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<br />
<i><u>Thursday</u></i><br />
<br />
Chef Poupard began our morning by making asparagus in a puff pastry with a mushroom flan. He followed it with braised lamb chops and leek cannelloni (leek stuffed with mashed potatoes), ending with chocolate fondant and pistachio ice cream for dessert. Surprising us all, he spent no time talking about the Île-de-France region, probably because we were living in it and its cuisine tends to be a melange of all of French regions. The asparagus was wonderful--just the smell of it cooking had my mouth watering all through class.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhf0nc4q14lSVY0wHs2YrKGMvOFJt5OokIObZ_dkpv7eyFUofkJlr8S3PjLCTjkl_aRDa7N-qE7HidPgJhFYGv9L32jZVTF_M3GUV1wdz0oUbHxLkpyB_zkLU2UpejAwm-mduqnEiyB5A/s1600/IMG_1551.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhf0nc4q14lSVY0wHs2YrKGMvOFJt5OokIObZ_dkpv7eyFUofkJlr8S3PjLCTjkl_aRDa7N-qE7HidPgJhFYGv9L32jZVTF_M3GUV1wdz0oUbHxLkpyB_zkLU2UpejAwm-mduqnEiyB5A/s1600/IMG_1551.JPG" height="357" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small; text-align: start;">Asparagus puff pastry and mushroom flan<br />Lamb chops and leek cannelloni<br />Chocolate fondant and pistachio ice cream</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Our next class was the cuisine practicum but it didn't being until 6:30 PM. I used my free afternoon to visit <a href="http://eshop.e-dehillerin.fr/" target="_blank">Dehillerin</a> and buy long tweezers (good for the delicate placement of food on a plate), a triangle scraper (good for tabling chocolate), and kitchen scissors after someone took mine earlier in the week (the school sold them for 22<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%;">€</span>; Dehillerin had some for less than 6<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%;">€</span>). Back at the school, we got through the lamb chops in practicum quickly--another dish far too easy to be on the final exam.<br />
<br />
<i><u>Friday</u></i><br />
<br />
The next morning we had our pastry practicum with Chef Olivier, back from his vacation in India and acting unusually chipper. He cranked out six Douceur Chocolat (Heavenly Chocolate) cakes--a hazelnut dacquoise sponge cake covered in the crispy rocher filling and then topped with chocolate mousse, a milk chocolate disk, more chocolate mousse, and another chocolate disk. It had well earned its name.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhHoaLUiW-zFXN1Ejfp8hlChjoMLO_KrYSgJMjbMYY-ArJe6xMg0RPWWu1mQSfSTUifezosNCRWjNZL3aXgIzhuw68O_ft-6FBeo5SRyRZ3X_keYNLL0F9Gv9QLGIcyJJqmTg8EUZAnA/s1600/IMG_1553.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhHoaLUiW-zFXN1Ejfp8hlChjoMLO_KrYSgJMjbMYY-ArJe6xMg0RPWWu1mQSfSTUifezosNCRWjNZL3aXgIzhuw68O_ft-6FBeo5SRyRZ3X_keYNLL0F9Gv9QLGIcyJJqmTg8EUZAnA/s1600/IMG_1553.JPG" height="336" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Douceur Chocolat</td></tr>
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I looked forward to the practicum afterwards to prove to myself that I could temper chocolate without the help of the chef. We had Chef Pascal--someone who terrified me the first time that I had him but then kind of grew on me later--for the first time since we were in basic pastry. My half of the room, usually the slower ones, got a head start when the other half of the room discovered that someone had poured salt into their bowl of sugar and they all had to remake their dacquoise. The chocolate tempering went well, too--mine wasn't as shiny as Chef Olivier's--but Pascal's only critique of my cake was that the disk layers were too thick. The rocher filling was by far the best part. I saved what I had left over and another student gave me hers, and then I ate it for breakfast the next morning with a spoon. Vive la France!<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs1-NHdT4xHfqlE8ndgcsjStx22mbTKchMI7Z8GScgeFug3aNAEztnxdqlaqd89m2iCxlkW2vQIyiCmBjZAlryUQt60AuJ68rpfTWsmJrFlzl_PKg6E6iKU1IZeU03wit9N2l4_QHCNQ/s1600/IMG_1555.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs1-NHdT4xHfqlE8ndgcsjStx22mbTKchMI7Z8GScgeFug3aNAEztnxdqlaqd89m2iCxlkW2vQIyiCmBjZAlryUQt60AuJ68rpfTWsmJrFlzl_PKg6E6iKU1IZeU03wit9N2l4_QHCNQ/s1600/IMG_1555.JPG" height="400" width="347" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My thick-disk Douceur Chocolat</td></tr>
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After the practicum we joined the other cuisine students in a demonstration with Chef Caals on the Champagne region. While I absolutely loved the leek and Chaource cheese tart starter, the main course combined two of the things that I hate the most about French cuisine (after aspic jelly): vegetable flans and fish mousseline. The sole fillet was stuffed with pureed whiting fillet and the flan was made of oyster mushrooms, creating something that had a nasty texture, disgusting color, and bland flavor. The madeleines for dessert were nice and the Champagne sorbet finished too late for the tasting.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyIhK5NJj6zkqtNZ0JZiWOsCkVeCBaYPESbKL7U2bLXZD_Ht_QukyugyeuPY1xeBcfeeVsleaqHtgyrOkakhk18a3b2yhhLUQH5TRnP_tb_tU1JvN22g7-dXG39I88mKxymB9WGA9B1g/s1600/IMG_1557.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyIhK5NJj6zkqtNZ0JZiWOsCkVeCBaYPESbKL7U2bLXZD_Ht_QukyugyeuPY1xeBcfeeVsleaqHtgyrOkakhk18a3b2yhhLUQH5TRnP_tb_tU1JvN22g7-dXG39I88mKxymB9WGA9B1g/s1600/IMG_1557.JPG" height="351" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small; text-align: start;">Leek and Chaource cheese tart;<br />Sole fillet and whiting mousseline paupiettes with mushroom flan;<br />Champagne sorbet and madeleines</span></td></tr>
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<i><u>Saturday</u></i><br />
<br />
Our cuisine practicum was the only class of the day but didn't begin until 6:30 PM. Chef had three practicums that day and was as anxious as we were to get out quickly. I was the cuisine assistant all week which up to this point hadn't been too difficult. When I picked up our class food trays from the basement kitchen, however, I noticed that we were missing the whiting fillet, we had turbot fish instead of sole, and the principal sauce ingredient, Champagne, was missing. The basement kitchen chef said that our chef had it, but when I ran up the three flights of stairs to the classroom, our chef insisted that I needed to recheck the refrigerator in the basement.<br />
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Meanwhile, our chef managed to switch out the turbot for cod, splitting it with the class next door who was doing the same dish and having the same issues of missing ingredients. Returning to the basement, I searched in vain for the missing box of ingredients until both chefs from upstairs joined me and found it in another refrigerator (to which students don't have access). Running up the stairs again I finally joined the rest of my group, but when I went to get my cod, they were all gone. Our chef had miscounted and given mine to the class next door. Some classmates offered to share some of their fillets, but this recipe is an exam dish and I knew that if I didn't practice filleting the fish myself I would definitely pull it on exam day. For the third time in the first half-hour I made the trip down to the basement and back up again, cod in hand.<br />
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Fortunately I was able to clean my fish in record time--Chef Caals showed us a nifty little trick for quickly ripping off all of the skin by hand--and I finished everything last as usual, but not as far behind as I thought that I would. It helped that we shared the preparation of the flan and mousseline--as we do with most recipes that involve using the classroom's one food processor or blender--although the other assistant threw away all of the leftover flans before I plated. The flans were terrible anyhow--overcooked in addition to being just a gross recipe--and nobody wanted to take them home, so someone whom the chef had just evaluated handed me her flan to finish my plate.<br />
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That evening while most Parisians that I passed on my way home were bundled in jackets and scarves and the outdoor seating areas were empty, I wore a t-shirt and savored the lovely breeze from the cold front blowing in, a beautiful relief from the steamy, sweaty kitchen. Sunday morning dawned cold and cloudy, and on my walk from the metro station to the church I caught a scent for the first time--fall. Saint-Denis has more trees than Paris, and the sidewalks were littered with damp, rotting leaves. It was... lovely.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15818532587630238644noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7055176771372598926.post-89084072592316298922014-09-28T13:55:00.001-07:002014-09-28T14:03:03.009-07:00Intermediate Week Four<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Only four weeks into the new term the exhaustion has been hitting hard, but Monday was class-free--the perfect opportunity to take a day trip to some place like Omaha Beach or Strasbourg and enjoy the beautiful weather; however, by the time that I got out of bed my plans had changed to staying in my pajamas, catching up on some reading, and organizing class notes and recipes. I reasoned with myself that it was the best thing for my budget. Yeah, that's it--not laziness. The metro was also under some sort of <a href="http://www.independent.co.uk/news/world/europe/islamic-state-iraq-warns-of-isis-plots-to-hit-paris-metro-and-ny-subway-9756433.html" target="_blank">ISIS bomb threat</a>, although I didn't learn of this until Friday (should I feel insulted that no family or friends sent me overly-panicked messages warning me to stay away from the metro?).</div>
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<u><i>Tuesday</i></u></div>
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The warning light in my head went off when I saw that our cuisine demonstration and practicum were going to involve lobster. While the live crabs in basic cuisine may have taken me by surprise, I was just familiar enough with lobster to know that it's generally served very fresh--seafood restaurants don't keep those large tanks in public view simply for decoration. Chef Caals showed us two methods for preparation: tie up the live lobster and drop it into the boiling cooking liquid or shove a knife through its head and end things quickly. Neither option sounded particularly appealing, but I was leaning towards the latter. Caals additionally prepared a tomato and fennel tart, rice pilaf with raisins, and a fabulous chocolate cream soufflé with orange ice cream.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhneBHrTtdNx7tZXDxe3m3ezbCfNvN_dpsc0UUcTWK9IBU889r9fcO7kSHgrUyQKNheTE3YMTMeaTYhtjCOZhlca2l25043epyVOE5UzouvHIECnv0nFEnZbDrmdONLzsqgxuJ5nJbO7w/s1600/IMG_1517.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhneBHrTtdNx7tZXDxe3m3ezbCfNvN_dpsc0UUcTWK9IBU889r9fcO7kSHgrUyQKNheTE3YMTMeaTYhtjCOZhlca2l25043epyVOE5UzouvHIECnv0nFEnZbDrmdONLzsqgxuJ5nJbO7w/s1600/IMG_1517.JPG" height="376" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tomato & fennel tart; Lobster & rice pilaf with raisins;<br />
Chocolate cream soufflé & orange ice cream</td></tr>
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Practicum followed after lunch. Korean lady chef had gone into the room next door while we began to select our victims. Using my tongs, I carefully picked up my lobster. Although the claws were shut with rubber bands, it suddenly arched its back and hit my arm with its flailing tail and arms, causing me to emit a scream that sent two chefs running into the room. My preferred method of slaughter didn't matter in the end, either, because our chef wanted us to tie up the lobster, rip out its claws, and plunge its squirming torso into the boiling water. The chef only shook her head as I closed my eyes and twisted off each arm, apologizing profusely in the process.<br />
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The lobster ended up being the only thing that was done well--the rice was undercooked and I forgot to add the raisins, and my sauce had too much coral and tomalley (green stuff that you scrape out of the lobster's head and use as a thickening agent). It was, however, one of the faster and simpler dishes that we had prepared and I found myself hoping that I would get it on the final exam.<br />
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<i><u>Wednesday</u></i><br />
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Our cuisine demonstration was the first of a two-part lesson on making consommé and aspic jelly. Chef Poupard began by making an aspic-coated chicken terrine with pan-fried foie gras. He moved on to the dish that we would be making in our practicum that evening--a chicken ballotine. It involved deboning a chicken but leaving all of its skin in one piece with the meat still attached, and then filling that chicken with a blend of pork fatback, pork shoulder, diced ham, pistachios, and foie gras mousse before rolling it up into a thick log and poaching it in a court bouillon. He finished the demo by making white sausage... because the French can't get enough of blended and poached meats. It was the only dish that we actually sampled--the other two would be served cold the next day.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmMIWBotF_Xoc-ZuV0tRS1rNk964HMv1BhcY9GATjemJFqMHigdxdyGLxh90yoXSw7etrZkPvrfyM49ZU4kvkTk_mCFdaSJbm24T2HbpqWL8HenY3oIDOc9wVFw4KHmtUma0O41cF-9g/s1600/IMG_1521.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmMIWBotF_Xoc-ZuV0tRS1rNk964HMv1BhcY9GATjemJFqMHigdxdyGLxh90yoXSw7etrZkPvrfyM49ZU4kvkTk_mCFdaSJbm24T2HbpqWL8HenY3oIDOc9wVFw4KHmtUma0O41cF-9g/s1600/IMG_1521.JPG" height="302" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">White sausage with apples</td></tr>
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Chef Cotte prepared three-chocolate Bavarois in the next demonstration. The bottom consisted of a ladyfinger sponge cake imbibed with chocolate syrup. The next four layers were dark chocolate, milk chocolate, and white chocolate Bavarian cream topped with dark chocolate ganache. Like the Opéra cake, we would have to draw some designs on our finished product (only with white chocolate). The cake was delicious, it seemed straightforward, and I was feeling more confident in my cornet drawing skills. It was my week to be the class assistant in pastry but even that didn't appear to be too worrisome for this recipe.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3MQQfl0eFD1n7Ym6Zw3aJDfNRigqUdv47PkULvVYHpy6VWG_2HKXC37_3n2yA1ZdjZ5LxWzI5Yi9E-nwljDnyvEebVkOUIWv7C7jTYtf9ZQSdTHRlXltWXF7SecPxoJLKOwvOJ2MAOQ/s1600/IMG_1522.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3MQQfl0eFD1n7Ym6Zw3aJDfNRigqUdv47PkULvVYHpy6VWG_2HKXC37_3n2yA1ZdjZ5LxWzI5Yi9E-nwljDnyvEebVkOUIWv7C7jTYtf9ZQSdTHRlXltWXF7SecPxoJLKOwvOJ2MAOQ/s1600/IMG_1522.JPG" height="373" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Chef's Bavarois</td></tr>
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We calculated that we should be out of our cuisine practicum early that evening because we were preparing only the one item--the chicken ballotine--but when we reached the classroom the group before us was still frantically laboring. Even with me in the group we're one of the faster ones, though, so we weren't worried. As it turns out, deboning a chicken while keeping its skin all in one piece is much harder than it sounds, as is rolling up the ballotine. All of them were poaching after about 90 minutes, though, and we used the wait time to practice making Hollandaise sauce, the technical part of our intermediate cuisine final exam. At least some of us made Hollandaise--the school ran completely out of eggs.<br />
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After about an 45 minutes of poaching our ballotines the chef told us to take them off the stove and strain the cooking liquid. The internal temperatures were supposed to be 65<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%;">°</span>C but most of ours were around 45<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 15.6933336257935px;">°</span>C. We were also supposed to leave them refrigerated in the strained cooking liquid until our next practicum, but all of the kitchen refrigerators felt more like ovens thanks to the previous class's hot pots of ballotines. Grabbing both their pots and ours we began transferring them to the refrigerators next door where we collided with irate pastry students hurrying to finish their Bavarois. We did at least manage to finish a half-hour earlier than the first group.<br />
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<i><u>Thursday</u></i><br />
<br />
The pastry practicum to make the Bavarois was first thing in the morning. My fellow assistant Dao and I arrived early to begin gathering the ingredients but the chef was missing and the supply closet was locked. The one ingredient that we could get, the eggs, were still out of stock because the morning shipment had not yet arrived. We found just enough for everyone to do their ladyfinger sponge. About three minutes before the start of class Chef Jordan arrived. My stomach twisted in a knot--we had him only for one or two demonstrations and a theory class in basic, but we heard horror stories from other students who had him in practicals.<br />
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While Dao and I went with the chef to get ingredients the other students began their ladyfinger sponge. We were finally able to join them but before I could even measure out my ingredients the chef told me that the eggs had arrived and sent me to get them right then... from the basement kitchen. We were on the third floor (or fourth floor for my American friends). I descended the four flights of stairs two steps at a time, grabbed the first box that I saw, and ascended a little more slowly. Panting, I finally began my batter by the time that most of the class had finished with the chef yelling at me to hurry up and get mine into the oven. Things went only downhill from there.<br />
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In demonstration, Cotte instructed us to melt the three chocolates simply by pouring the hot Bavarian cream mixture over them. Because he was working with about four times the recipe, though, it worked quite well for him. The small amount of cream that we were using hardly warmed the chocolate. We were soon jockeying for positions at the stoves to heat up our bowls. Jordan stood by with his notepad, jotting notes and yelling at us to hurry because we were already late.<br />
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When it came time to add the last layer of ganache I knew that I was in trouble. Only after I began to pour it over the top did I realize that it was too thick and not heated enough--it began to coagulate before it spread evenly to the edges and my attempts to smooth it out only made it look worse. Out of my peripheral vision I could see Jordan staring at me, but I finally gave up and moved on to my white chocolate decoration. Everyone was finished and lining up to show him his or her cake, so I just did some quick shaky swirls knowing full-well that it didn't matter because my ganache looked so horrendous.<br />
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I stood at the back of the line of students and listened to him harshly critique each one, so when my turn finally came I preempted his remarks by saying, "My ganache is screwed up--it wasn't warm enough." He agreed, pointed out some other problems with my cake, and then gathered the whole group together. He began his speech with, "Everyone today failed--I gave you all zeros--except him. He's the only one who passed." He pointed to the rather boyish girl on his right as little whispers of "she" went around the room, although nobody dared to correct him out loud.<br />
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He then proceeded to tell us that our first mistake was not melting our chocolate before adding the cream even if the chef didn't do it in demonstration. He made a few other points that might have been helpful while we were actually in the process of making our cakes but he insisted that the fault for not knowing was ours because we don't ask questions during the demonstration. Not that he was in the demonstration ("I know--I've been in the demos before and you don't ask questions!") and not that we knew what questions to ask.<br />
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The majority of cakes looked really good to me (except mine) and while I appreciate discipline and honest assessments in the classroom I couldn't for the life of me figure out how every other cake but one was deserving of failure. My panic level rose when he boasted that he failed three intermediate students on the final exam last semester over that cake--a frightening statistic when you consider that only about seven students would have received that recipe. We left class a little shell-shocked with one Asian girl completely in tears and me praying that I don't get that cake or Chef Jordan on the exam.<br />
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Dao and I grabbed a quick lunch at a cheap Chinese place and returned to our afternoon cuisine demonstration with Chef Vaca. He unmolded Chef Poupard's terrine from Friday, sliced up the ballotine, clarified the cooking liquid, and made a sea bream and tomato jelly terrine... because who doesn't like jellified meats, fish, and vegetables? The final dishes were quite pretty, though, demonstrating once again that presentation is often more important than taste in French cuisine.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi59dJyUv8p-jUUKcibSjPUgxPkkeCe-0DVC9wEIkqC-M_rk8UEoP55a34neGx1caOmLPwfE8khcwuD9Hz-dL8T5CgdNtd4vEJ-tQ0xO2ClQhjYiq9nN1lcSJB7oMUAU_KbN_FqzTG03Q/s1600/IMG_1527.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi59dJyUv8p-jUUKcibSjPUgxPkkeCe-0DVC9wEIkqC-M_rk8UEoP55a34neGx1caOmLPwfE8khcwuD9Hz-dL8T5CgdNtd4vEJ-tQ0xO2ClQhjYiq9nN1lcSJB7oMUAU_KbN_FqzTG03Q/s1600/IMG_1527.JPG" height="310" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ballotine on chicken jelly; Aspic-coated chicken terrine;<br />
Sea bream terrine</td></tr>
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<i><u>Friday</u></i><br />
<br />
Intermediate cuisine focuses heavily on chocolates, which might sound like a good thing but is actually quite stressful. A few chefs had already given demonstrations on tempering chocolates but up to this point we had never actually done it ourselves. To perfectly temper dark chocolate--get it to the stage where it dries with a glossy, smooth surface--one must melt it to a temperature of 45<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%;">°</span>-50<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%;">°</span>C, bring it down to a temperature of 27<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%;">°</span>C (we were to use the tabling method--spreading it out thinly on a counter), and bring it back up to 31<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%;">°</span>-32<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%;">°</span>C. Milk and white chocolates have a whole different set of rules. Chef Cotte made truffles, coffee creams, candied oranges, and mendiants (mixed fruit and nut chocolates); we would have to make only the first two.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitA6tJFQdomrW-_e-vFMJJAVX98ZcxGVqFmidt44Sj2EdLgpo23-g2VYaaeUXjF_HLIen9vJnw4BGWVaeBQhGoOs2fPkUOfN3KWrASs6twZGD0tcjfsfSVUS5eOPKwWKuPoN0YvlTZng/s1600/IMG_1532.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitA6tJFQdomrW-_e-vFMJJAVX98ZcxGVqFmidt44Sj2EdLgpo23-g2VYaaeUXjF_HLIen9vJnw4BGWVaeBQhGoOs2fPkUOfN3KWrASs6twZGD0tcjfsfSVUS5eOPKwWKuPoN0YvlTZng/s1600/IMG_1532.JPG" height="367" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Truffles, coffee creams, mendiants, and orangettes</td></tr>
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That afternoon we made our consommé clarification/chicken jelly and the white sausage (from Wednesday's demonstration). The clarification went well but I had a rough start to the sausage--the casing slipped off of the piping tip while I was trying to fill it up, creating a pink sea of meat mush all over my work space, but once I got the hang of it the process was almost enjoyable. After tying off the sausage links and dumping it into the poaching liquid I began decorating my chicken jelly as a base for a slice of ballotine. My first attempt at a tomato rose wasn't terrible and I made some semblance of a stem using leeks. The chef wasn't too impressed but he thought that everything tasted fine. When it came time to plate my sausage, though, I found that all of the casings had exploded, leaving me with a pot full only of mushy sausage innards; however, we were running so late and the chef was in such a hurry that I don't think he even realized that he didn't evaluate the sausage.<br />
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We had to make a dash from class to the locker rooms to drop off our knife kits, aprons, and hats in order to make it to the next cuisine demonstration on time. Student services were doing a uniform check at the door and, not having time to put on a clean jacket, I held my notebook strategically to cover up the stains from the last practicum. Finding a spot under the air conditioning that was actually working for once, I fanned myself as Chef Singer gave us a demonstration on cuisine from the region of Alsace.<br />
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Back in the summer of 2000 while staying in Nice I had made a weekend trip to Strasbourg and found the area to be quite charming. It's as much German as it is French (if not more so) and I looked forward to this lesson. The chef made a Flammenküche (a sort of pizza with cream, onion, and bacon), Alsatian-style sauerkraut with sausages and potatoes, and trout stuffed with mushrooms. Unfortunately, he was running late and I had to request to leave early because I was the assistant in pastry, so I never was able to get photos or, sadly, do the tasting.<br />
<br />
A new chef was leading our practicum, an easy-going little man who gained instant popularity simply for not being Jordan. He really was very kind and helpful, though, and we soon had 14 puddles of dark chocolate being smeared all over the tables. The chefs encourage us not to test our chocolate with thermometers but rather to learn by touch. My touch apparently needs a little more practice because I overheated the chocolate, causing the cocoa butter to split. It still technically "worked" but my candies all came out dull with traces of light swirls in them. They worked in the sense that it didn't stop me from eating them.<br />
<br />
<i><u>Saturday</u></i><br />
<br />
We had only our cuisine practicum in the morning. Chef Cotte took a break from his pastry duties and joined us in the kitchen while we made the stuffed trout. Like the red mullet, we serve this fish whole (i.e., head and tail attached) meaning that we have to remove the bones and innards while keeping the form of the fish. Cutting cleanly down the back to the central bone was a bit difficult, but once I found it the rest was easy. The hardest part was, as always, removing the pin bones with fish tweezers. For some reason it takes me a thousand times longer than my classmates and I still missed several as I would discover at lunch later. Cotte was shouting out reminders that I needed to hurry and that I was the last person, but in the end he declared that my stuffing for the fish was "so good" and gave me a high-five.<br />
<br />
Having a cough and runny nose, I stayed home the rest of the day and on into Sunday, opting to listen to <a href="http://www.sermonaudio.com/main.asp" target="_blank">SermonAudio</a> rather than go to church. Before I left Greenville to come to Paris, Pastor Conley was in the middle of a series on David. I had really enjoyed those messages and decided to start catching up, beginning with the first message that I missed on June 22--"<a href="http://www.sermonaudio.com/sermoninfo.asp?SID=622141350260" target="_blank">Distress-Driven to the Lord</a>." The passage was <a href="https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=1+samuel+30%3A1-10&version=ESV" target="_blank">I Samuel 30:1-10</a> when David triumphantly returns to Ziklag only to discover that the Amalekites had plundered the city and taken all of the inhabitants captive. For the last few chapters we see no indication that David has been asking for the Lord's guidance in any decisions, but now as his own men are ready to turn on him he finally turns to the Lord<br />
<br />
Conley makes three points: 1) Let your distress drive you to remember God, 2) let your distress drive you to ask God, and 3) let your distress drive you to obey God. I was for about the millionth time reminded that in every decision, no matter how big or how small it may seem, no matter how sure I feel of how I should respond, my first step should always be to bring it before God. That way, when things don't work out the way that I hoped or expected, when I fail, or when I succeed I can rest in the knowledge that God was directing me and that He will do only what is best for me.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15818532587630238644noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7055176771372598926.post-83001731126254130452014-09-21T18:36:00.001-07:002014-09-22T03:00:23.525-07:00Intermediate Week ThreeAh, the last week of summer. Normally the promise of autumn sends me into uncontrolled giddiness, but in Paris very few changes occur between one season and the next. Our temperatures are dropping back down into the sixties after an unusually warm week, but we had cooler days in July and August. Instead of the changing colors of foliage and the smell of burning leaves while I'm walking around the neighborhood, the only indication I find that summer is coming to a close is the sight of fall fashions in shop windows.<br />
<br />
For the first time in years I'll miss attending the <a href="http://www.haywoodapplefest.com/" target="_blank">Apple Harvest Festival</a> in Waynesville, NC, driving along the <a href="http://www.blueridgeparkway.org/" target="_blank">Blue Ridge Parkway</a>, eating a <a href="http://www.bojangles.com/" target="_blank">Bojangle's</a> picnic with family at the <a href="http://www.nps.gov/carl/index.htm" target="_blank">Carl Sandburg home</a>, baking countless apple crisps/apple dumplings/apple cakes/apple bread, and spending hours each weekend raking leaves. Actually, "miss" isn't the best verb for that last activity, although even that memory makes me a little nostalgic after a few months of living in the concrete jungle.<br />
<br />
To combat my best-season-of-the-year blues, I've started researching autumn in France--where to find the best color, when to expect leaves to peak, what activities are available--and discovered that while there are some recommended locations (e.g., Strasbourg, the Loire Valley), I shouldn't expect anything too spectacular because t<i>hey don't have maple trees</i>. WHAT?? As if that weren't bad enough, people here stare at me like I have monkeys coming out of my ears when I talk about the idea of visiting an apple orchard. You'd think that I was suggesting we go harvest our own grain from somebody's farm.<br />
<br />
My last hope is that while the trees in my favorite mountain spots will be bare, South Carolina will still have some color when I arrive in mid-November. Browsing through my camera photos I found these shots that I took while walking in my old neighborhood on November 10th--about two weeks before I moved from my house (sniff, sniff). I can almost smell the smoke coming from chimneys and hear the leaves crunching under my feet. [<i>Oh, yeah--don't expect any smoke to be coming out of Paris chimneys. It's not exactly illegal but most fireplaces are now non-functional, fires are highly regulated, and wood costs of fortune.</i>]<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyzzRfJeOyjvhupadJTAYEwg28Y3C7KRQZEn072nZDirnE5V2cIG4KVk9YjemwcqJ-gH0PrvX53Abi65oZfbFxcAbpX3jCOa5HMOsD9cE0w60RtD0PU-qagAcmLav38gCKASTmM1d5UA/s1600/IMG_0641+(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyzzRfJeOyjvhupadJTAYEwg28Y3C7KRQZEn072nZDirnE5V2cIG4KVk9YjemwcqJ-gH0PrvX53Abi65oZfbFxcAbpX3jCOa5HMOsD9cE0w60RtD0PU-qagAcmLav38gCKASTmM1d5UA/s1600/IMG_0641+(2).JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">November 10, 2013 in Greenville--miracles CAN happen</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMgcK7sjhF7sFFN_4hyphenhyphenHIXvWOAp5lVIUDM6oH0ca7NEVzSnJ6WIkNyDgOkvq9mashS_A6NA2d7MfK5MB_961O-Zr_j9G9WAwgHQ24CZZlTqtxZUfDp7fli3s4phGbYpGyx5265Nx6Sqw/s1600/IMG_0642+(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMgcK7sjhF7sFFN_4hyphenhyphenHIXvWOAp5lVIUDM6oH0ca7NEVzSnJ6WIkNyDgOkvq9mashS_A6NA2d7MfK5MB_961O-Zr_j9G9WAwgHQ24CZZlTqtxZUfDp7fli3s4phGbYpGyx5265Nx6Sqw/s1600/IMG_0642+(2).JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Also November 10th--favorite tree in front of my favorite house</td></tr>
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<br />
Back to summer, though (it's not officially over until 10:29 PM EDT on September 22), this week was one of the most uncomfortably warm ones that we've had since I arrived in Paris. Admittedly, the mid-eighties aren't terrible, but changing in a locker room with no air conditioning after sweating it out in a cuisine practicum reminds me of my high school P.E. days when I'd have to get into my street clothes after running the mile, except back then we had showers AND air conditioning.<br />
<br />
<i><u>Monday</u></i><br />
<br />
Chef Poupard (a.k.a., Map Chef) gave us a long talk on the southwest Landes region of France before making roasted squab (pigeon) salad, roasted duckling with Roman-style gnocchi, and stewed prunes on hazelnut shortbread. The pigeon salad was particularly... unusual. It tasted fine, but chef plated the leg by snipping off all of the talons but one, and then burning that talon with a torch. The end result looked positively sinister. I could almost hear it cackling, "<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PW_02k7LRMo" target="_blank">I'll get you, my pretty (and your little dog, too)!</a>"<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHkl0bKYewd9WLPyrWaVk_-Tdw3wDtNLIG6_b8ouuOKpsCf1jAuZ1KxgN9eOahuOvJUqs8outiCAYmlOxfBBYH05v-g1bL3AcN4wLspi3AcvRKTymatuMlTt-Vx_bIcBr_Q-hen7TUYg/s1600/IC7_M_D1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHkl0bKYewd9WLPyrWaVk_-Tdw3wDtNLIG6_b8ouuOKpsCf1jAuZ1KxgN9eOahuOvJUqs8outiCAYmlOxfBBYH05v-g1bL3AcN4wLspi3AcvRKTymatuMlTt-Vx_bIcBr_Q-hen7TUYg/s1600/IC7_M_D1.JPG" height="293" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sinister squab salad; Roasted duck; Stewed prunes with hazelnut shortbread</td></tr>
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<br />
After class and a brief lunch break, we went back into the demonstration room where Mark Singer, the new executive chef, awaited us for our first intermediate cuisine theory class on food safety/storage. Normally theory classes last only an hour and we all looked forward to getting out early in the afternoon, but this chef, much like in our cuisine practicum with him, prolonged it to almost three hours by forming every sentence as a question (e.g., "How long can we store fresh eggs?" "What foods can we freeze?" "What containers can we not use for storage?") even though it was our first time learning these things and we weren't expected to know the answers yet; thus the point of the theory class. Nonetheless I learned quite a lot about food storage regulations--enough to make me think that I never want to run a restaurant.<br />
<br />
<i><u>Tuesday</u></i><br />
<br />
We joined the Korean lady chef in the morning to make our roasted duckling and Roman-style gnocchi. It didn't rank as one of my favorite dishes--the duckling was a whole lot of work for a tiny bit of meat that wasn't anything to write home about. I did, however, like the pan-fried gnocchi with "bacon" and black trumpet mushrooms, even if my dough did have lumps of semolina in it.<br />
<br />
I shoved down some of the duckling for lunch and then went to Chef Caals' demonstration on oven-roasted vegetable roulade with St-Maure goat's cheese, stuffed guinea fowl pie, and pineapple ravioli with mascarpone, pineapple sorbet, and honey sauce. The salad was excellent although I noticed several of the Asian students turning up their noses to the beets and goat cheese (Aisans don't really do cheese).<br />
<br />
The guinea fowl pie is made by grinding up the leg meat of the bird with chicken livers, pork shoulder, and pork fatback and layering the forcemeat in a pie shell with potatoes and the breasts of the bird. It would have been much better with some carrots, celery, onions, and peas, but the French just aren't into vegetables. The pineapple ravioli was just strange--I love cilantro but it should never, ever be in a dessert.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhrJ8F8UcauSjv010ujSRfBWC8ZCWoxVLdM-ZkEyFyRi7Xs3YAtRrQirSTHOQmgUt28B0axkgg5621s_LPShif3R-iZ-0DWF769mFrLW8dEorUexLDD0ek9Q5fnVWuQ6avIuzuRMl7Sg/s1600/IC8_Tu_D3.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhrJ8F8UcauSjv010ujSRfBWC8ZCWoxVLdM-ZkEyFyRi7Xs3YAtRrQirSTHOQmgUt28B0axkgg5621s_LPShif3R-iZ-0DWF769mFrLW8dEorUexLDD0ek9Q5fnVWuQ6avIuzuRMl7Sg/s1600/IC8_Tu_D3.JPG" height="241" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Vegetable roulade with goat's cheese; Guinea fowl pie; Pineapple ravioli</td></tr>
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<br />
In the pastry demonstration immediately afterwards, Chef Cotte made macarons with anise-flavored pastry cream and raspberries, caramel crème brûlée, and dark chocolate fondant with bees' nests and white chocolate ice cream. French macarons should not be confused with American macaroons, those little coconut clusters dipped in chocolate. Macarons are light-as-air meringue-based cookies that sandwich flavored pastry cream. Normally I love them, and my favorite flavors are coffee, salted caramel, and lemon, but anise would be the last flavor on the planet that I would choose. I would sooner take cilantro-flavored cream if such a thing existed (and knowing the French, it probably does). The other two desserts were quite nice, though, and the anise flavor was just light enough not to be too offensive.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguf1TGkRYRV6IgMIZ-OSbadWIKRvnj2tV_Rz4O3idvaAUTdrufx07TZxkIaPWSfpl8pmy1ngBIdfYaDRXFBeUKp_OGgQLDLbCIegEjXCm5rB3GRqykxjDERZBBYOw5GeivXaru6LeYIg/s1600/IP5_Tu_D1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguf1TGkRYRV6IgMIZ-OSbadWIKRvnj2tV_Rz4O3idvaAUTdrufx07TZxkIaPWSfpl8pmy1ngBIdfYaDRXFBeUKp_OGgQLDLbCIegEjXCm5rB3GRqykxjDERZBBYOw5GeivXaru6LeYIg/s1600/IP5_Tu_D1.JPG" height="331" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Macarons; Crème brûlée; Dark chocolate fondant</td></tr>
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<br />
<br />
<i><u>Wednesday</u></i><br />
<br />
The 6:30 PM cuisine practicum was our only class for the day, so like the new and improved fastidious student that I have become I spent some time typing up and reviewing the recipes from the prior day's demonstrations (in spite of the fact that it doesn't seem to be helping). The guinea fowl pie seemed simple in theory but as much as I contemplated the best order in which to proceed I couldn't bring it together in my head. We would need to prepare the potatoes, clean the fowl, separate the meat, grind the forcemeat, and make a pie crust, leaving enough time to get it assembled and in the oven with about an hour to bake. Sometime in there we had to get the jus started because it also needed about an hour to cook.<br />
<br />
We had my new favorite chef again--the French version of <a href="http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0000614/" target="_blank">Alan Rickman</a>. I was struggling with cleaning my fowl--it was full of fat and not coming apart as nicely as in the demonstration--and falling behind my classmates as usual, but I finally assembled my pie and got it in the oven. It was then that I noticed the bowl of breadcrumbs on the counter and realized that I had forgotten to mix them into my forcemeat. It shouldn't have been a problem--this was the only cuisine recipe that the chef would not be tasting because cutting into the pie would be too messy (it has to rest for a long time)--but I exclaimed, "Oh, rats!" just as the chef walked by me.<br />
<br />
He said, "What's wrong?" I hesitated, then mumbled, "Uh, nothing, I just forgot something..." my voice trailing off. He finished for me: "The breadcrumbs? You shouldn't have told me--I never would have known!" He was laughing, though, so I laughed as well and replied, "I tried not to tell! Forget it--I remembered the breadcrumbs." My jus ended up being too salty as well and for all I know the chef gave me a failing grade on that practicum, but he's still my favorite.<br />
<br />
<i><u>Thursday</u></i><br />
<br />
Before ever starting at <a href="http://www.cordonbleu.edu/lcb-paris/en" target="_blank">Le Cordon Bleu</a> I had been looking forward to the day that we made macarons, and even with the anise flavoring I was still excited. Things seemed to be going well until I mixed my pastry cream. At first I thought that it was fine, but then Chef Walter came around and stuck his finger in it, asking what the little lumps were. Until then I hadn't noticed them, but they appeared to be bits of cornstarch. He became unusually upset, yelling with spittle flying in my face as I refrained from wiping it off that I had put all of my whipped cream into the egg mixture at once rather than how he and the Chef Cotte had demonstrated TWO TIMES--whisking in a little cream briskly and then gently folding in the rest of the cream... except that was exactly the way that I had done it. Trying not to sound belligerent I told him as much, to which he quickly calmed down, shrugged, and said that maybe I had just overcooked it.<br />
<br />
Normally we don't plate dishes in pastry practicums, but we had to plate one of our macarons as if we were serving it in a restaurant. Following Chef Cotte's advice in the demo to be very generous with the raspberry coulis, I made sure that it was running gently down the sides of the macaron as he had done, but Chef Walter is a minimalist and said that it was too much--that we should use only a small amount. By now I had accepted that my dessert was already pretty screwed up so I didn't try to explain my reasoning to him.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0uXX0bYG-HDwRoYWtAqEvqt7ceS03-cMMe2KzjxAq6xP2_6Dfk38xyPVJ7LQa30vRgy_aUEXBB4b4RY6AIZrfjbCuoGXRdPuT8Yp__DdzA6G6ISIFwjx8haJ0oYQH7ytj1pqx0CnNTA/s1600/IP5_W_P1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0uXX0bYG-HDwRoYWtAqEvqt7ceS03-cMMe2KzjxAq6xP2_6Dfk38xyPVJ7LQa30vRgy_aUEXBB4b4RY6AIZrfjbCuoGXRdPuT8Yp__DdzA6G6ISIFwjx8haJ0oYQH7ytj1pqx0CnNTA/s1600/IP5_W_P1.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Class macarons</td></tr>
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<br />
<i><u>Friday</u></i><br />
<br />
Chef Cotte was with us in the pastry demonstration again, this time making the infamous Opéra cake. It's made with a thin Joconde biscuit sponge cake that's covered in chocolate glaze, flipped over and imbibed with coffee syrup, covered in buttercream frosting and another layer of cake, imbibed and covered in chocolate ganache, covered with a last layer of cake and imbibed, frosted with the rest of the buttercream, and finally coated in the chocolate glaze. The taste is similar to a tiramisu with extra chocolate and less cream. Complex as all the parts to the assembly were, we knew that the biggest challenge would be the final decoration. Apparently a cake can't be referred to as "Opéra" unless it has the word written on it in fancy letters (probably another French law).<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0zXmwDrDJNmEhf7wG5WmObsNA05zUqf2mUAo9UASq-Dmwl9nGfPgtUKSEwyFqBFWuhrPANws-3SNP430zUIJLG5c6fp4johiXvx6J6kSdvrydXEXCZLtJlI0Yg7ULj14kx6-dXb73Sg/s1600/IP6_Fr_D3.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0zXmwDrDJNmEhf7wG5WmObsNA05zUqf2mUAo9UASq-Dmwl9nGfPgtUKSEwyFqBFWuhrPANws-3SNP430zUIJLG5c6fp4johiXvx6J6kSdvrydXEXCZLtJlI0Yg7ULj14kx6-dXb73Sg/s1600/IP6_Fr_D3.JPG" height="213" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Opéra</td></tr>
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<br />
After a quick lunch we went to our practicum to make the Opéra. A new-to-us chef was in charge (we had seen him around the school in basic but never in our classes). He made all of us leave the room because we came in before him (some chefs expect us to do it; others threaten us with zeros). When he let us enter again he demanded complete silence for the duration of the class unless we were talking to him. At first I was more than a little terrified of the angry little man, but in an odd way I kind of liked him. He was very helpful when I messed things up (which I was doing quite a lot in my state of panic) even though he would roll his eyes each time and say, "Please don't make me cry today." He was eventually calling us <i>terroristes</i> which is almost a term of endearment.<br />
<br />
The cake ended up taking almost all three hours and angry chef had to leave while we were in the process of writing "Opéra," so Chef Walter took over and did the final evaluation. Although I had practiced writing at home for days with Nutella on parchment paper, I realized as soon as the chocolate hit the cake that I had cut my cone tip too big, giving the writing a sort of cartoonish, crowded look rather than something elegant and sophisticated. Chef Walter agreed.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEbPSraveprG1HBqZa1gowkRVeLTNdRsjn2YEk2tjdxJyQs3tMRnJvScnKxAmqfGIFyibgDGq5sluE-ygVPrOTmJcb-oiS37jPtBphaS7Y-vZzW6ErpMTx4qYlyu_MQ37RwjtxjzT4vg/s1600/IMG_1504.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEbPSraveprG1HBqZa1gowkRVeLTNdRsjn2YEk2tjdxJyQs3tMRnJvScnKxAmqfGIFyibgDGq5sluE-ygVPrOTmJcb-oiS37jPtBphaS7Y-vZzW6ErpMTx4qYlyu_MQ37RwjtxjzT4vg/s1600/IMG_1504.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gilbert & Sullivan, perhaps</td></tr>
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<br />
Those of us in the Grand Diplome program had to run out of class to get to our cuisine demonstration in time, hoping that nobody was checking uniforms since most of us were covered in all parts of the Opéra cake. Chef Poupard wasn't concerned, though, focusing more on his map and everything about the Bordelais region of France. He made for us Arcachon oysters with leeks and chipolata sausages, Bordeaux-style duck breast with fondant potato rounds, pan-fried cep mushrooms and bacon, and Bordeaux cannelés. The breasts came from foie gras-fattened ducks which brought on about a 45-minute class discussion on the ethics of foie gras. Poupard prepared the main course in about 30 minutes, though, which made us pretty hopeful about repeating it in our practical the next morning.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR8EKN8aahpDmnWZi48Lz820CoOqR36bCzv-BH_vf85klRQe7dAZOvlK4jI64b5JlwIuIHWvMAI2_WBLQEb93hi0fZGal2ZaskD1TwfwdvcX-3VEAHZLpstjqhkg0rXU3_ZNncBmGmaQ/s1600/IC9_Fr_D2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR8EKN8aahpDmnWZi48Lz820CoOqR36bCzv-BH_vf85klRQe7dAZOvlK4jI64b5JlwIuIHWvMAI2_WBLQEb93hi0fZGal2ZaskD1TwfwdvcX-3VEAHZLpstjqhkg0rXU3_ZNncBmGmaQ/s1600/IC9_Fr_D2.JPG" height="95" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Oysters & leeks with chipolata sausage; Duck breast; Bordeaux cannelées</td></tr>
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<i><u>Saturday</u></i><br />
<br />
The cuisine practicum began at 8:30 the next morning. It didn't involve cleaning any animals--we only had to trim the breast--and I knew that the majority of my time would be spent on rounding the potatoes. Each individual slice had to be turned into a perfect circle and each circle had to have the top and bottom edges rounded out. I was taking a particularly long time--20 rounds took about 30 minutes to complete. The cep mushrooms were only a little easier. In demo Poupard had washed them, but some chefs find washing mushrooms to be highly offensive and our chef wanted them only brushed off and peeled entirely, both the stems and the caps.<br />
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This chef was also someone whom we never had and he spoke no English at all. He reminded me a bit of a pirate, possibly due to his scraggly looks and the little hoop earring that he somehow got away with wearing, but he was pleasant enough. Most importantly he liked everything about my dish but the presentation (of course) and declared my rounded potatoes to be perfect, even suggesting that people get a photo of them for future reference (being the slowest isn't always a bad thing). We all finished in record time and by 10:00 AM I was headed back home to begin the weekend.<br />
<br />
After lunch and an unplanned (but not unexpected) nap, I sat down to finish my internship application. Early in the week I bit the bullet and bought health insurance (the one document that I was missing to qualify for the internship) through <a href="http://www.cignaglobal.com/" target="_blank">Cigna</a>, and over the next several days I had been struggling with them to get my proof of insurance form. With everything finally in hand I was able to proceed.<br />
<br />
Apart from the proof of insurance, the application required a copy of my passport, student visa, and residency permit along with a CV and cover letter written in French. It contained a series of essay-type questions as well that seemed to ask the same question in multiple ways: Did I think an internship was a good way to finish my education and why? What is the goal of an internship? What do I hope to get out of an internship?<br />
<br />
The last questions that I needed to answer were with regard to where I wanted to do my internships. All along I had assumed that I would be doing them in Paris, but when I realized that I could go anywhere in France I suddenly knew that I wanted to try other cities. Aside from the fact that pretty much every other city has a lower cost of living, here was a perfect opportunity to experience more of the country. Plus, let's face it--Paris and I haven't exactly been best friends.<br />
<br />
After a bit of research I finally decided that I would request to do my cuisine internship during April and May in Montpellier in the south of France and my patisserie internship during June and July in Lyon or Grenbole in the east close to the Alps and Switzerland. It wasn't incredibly scientific--I figured that I should put down cuisine first because it's the one that I'm most likely to pass, Montpellier should be pleasant in the spring, and I would love to be by the coast for a while. Lyon will be nice for the summer months and it is supposed to have some fabulous restaurants, plus I've always wanted to see the Alps.<br />
<br />
My excitement and hope is back up for the internships. Already I've begun looking at apartments to rent and activities in those areas. The restaurants and patisseries that I chose have great reviews and a lot of them are open only Tuesdays through Saturdays, so although I'll be working many long hours I'll be guaranteed some days off. It's still possible that I won't qualify for one or both, but it feels really good just to have a plan.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15818532587630238644noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7055176771372598926.post-35592779000918815802014-09-15T09:40:00.001-07:002014-09-16T10:08:14.068-07:00Intermediate Week TwoMy first two weeks of trying to be a more conscientious student have proved to be... unsuccessful. Yes, I've been faithfully typing out and studying my recipes after each class but somehow that hasn't translated to better performance in the kitchen.<br />
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The one positive change that I've noticed, though, is that cleaning fish, birds, and other dead animals doesn't bother me half as much as it used to. While I wouldn't go so far as to say that I enjoy it, little things get me excited such as successfully ripping the tendons out of a chickens's legs through its "knees" or getting out all of its innards through the tail with one hand sweep of the cavity. I actually gave a gasp of delight when a chef showed me how to gut a fish just by pulling the gills. Okay, maybe this isn't a positive change - maybe this is how most serial killers get started - but it certainly makes life easier these days.<br />
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<i><u>Monday</u></i><br />
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Our only task for the morning was to make the pan-roasted guinea fowl and "half-moon" cut vegetables from Friday's demonstration. The Korean lady was our chef, freshly back from her vacation in Thailand. My bird was a good bit under-cooked, but only because the chef herself had advised me to take it out of the oven (I didn't point this fact out to her).<br />
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<i><u>Tuesday</u></i><br />
<br />
My schedule was free from Monday morning's class until Tuesday evening's class and I used my time to clean the apartment and read before heading to school. Chef Vaca, also back from vacation, led a demonstration on terrine made from langoustines (scampi) and lamb sweetbreads which, as it turns out, aren't sweet or breads at all but the thymus or throat of a lamb (I actually thought that "sweetbread" referred to the brain, so you can imagine my relief... not that we probably won't have to cross that bridge eventually).<br />
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For the main course he made red mullets served inexplicably with the head and tail still attached - because who doesn't want his dinner to look partially alive? - and stuffed with a black olive tapenade next to a savory onion royal custard (think onion-flavored flan). The fish wasn't too bad, but the custard was horrific. Aside from the fact that it was incredibly bland (Vaca even admitted that it needed more salt), it had cooled by the time that we were able to taste it which only made its custard-y texture more repulsive. Dessert was nice at least: homemade ice cream served over poached pears and chocolate sauce.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9eujd4Q4HTSGtugCiXQbdJVVLXW-BLGRFtF62nFFA2GAk5zEz6Q2YRrIfoOwXpreiR1doJN-Ql1TBWVBdmySpPkq55aJxqlJqlOUMoqch9lVKtyOba26V9t4Vrrs1YonL2KjH3cPffg/s1600/IC4_Tu_D1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9eujd4Q4HTSGtugCiXQbdJVVLXW-BLGRFtF62nFFA2GAk5zEz6Q2YRrIfoOwXpreiR1doJN-Ql1TBWVBdmySpPkq55aJxqlJqlOUMoqch9lVKtyOba26V9t4Vrrs1YonL2KjH3cPffg/s1600/IC4_Tu_D1.JPG" height="85" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Langoustine & lamb sweetbread terrine; Red mullet with black olive<br />
tapenade and onion custard; Pears Belle-Hélène</td></tr>
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<i><u>Wednesday</u></i><br />
<br />
Wednesday picked up the slack from the previous two days and we were faced for the first time with two cuisine practicums on the same day. The morning began with a pastry demonstration, though, in which Chef Tranchant instructed us on how to make the Jamaica, a recipe so complex that the ingredients took up two pages. It had a sponge cake base (similar to chocolate ladyfingers) topped with coconut mousse, poached pineapples, mango-passion fruit mousse, and a passion fruit glaze.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU6BiF3QBRiycetBUd5spqF9Ixo6-643DC_2Lb4n8z8Y1OU4SP36GL7vOwONFcd98ZuDbgOiUAZzI4hu2AxiXGXfF8lV1GISK9K_zhk_nONFZyemqehuGVKS32h0WWPTvGyFaez5_QLg/s1600/IP3_We_D1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU6BiF3QBRiycetBUd5spqF9Ixo6-643DC_2Lb4n8z8Y1OU4SP36GL7vOwONFcd98ZuDbgOiUAZzI4hu2AxiXGXfF8lV1GISK9K_zhk_nONFZyemqehuGVKS32h0WWPTvGyFaez5_QLg/s1600/IP3_We_D1.JPG" height="211" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jamaica</td></tr>
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After lunch we made our way to the first cuisine practicum to make the stuffed red mullet. Chef Poupard was in charge, but another chef was with him - an American expat named Mark Singer who recently retired from <a href="http://www.ledodin.com/" target="_blank">Le Dodin</a> restaurant (thanks, <a href="http://www.google.com/" target="_blank">Google</a>!). As in most practicums we weren't introduced to the chef and I assumed that he was in training. That assumption began to change, though, when he would stand next to me asking in a bored voice questions that I was never sure how to answer such as, "Would you eat a fish that looked like that?" or "Stop what you're about to do. What should your next logical step should be?"<br />
<br />
He eventually followed one of his critiques sarcastically with, "But what do I know? I'm new here. I'm only the executive chef." I never even knew <a href="http://www.cordonbleu.edu/lcb-paris/en" target="_blank">Le Cordon Bleu</a> had an executive chef, but as it turned out he was the new one. Pointing to the classmate across from me, his final question was, "Why is your fish fuller than his?" After throwing out three or four guesses involving every part of the fish preparation that I could remember, I finally said, "Because his fish baked longer?" As it turned out, it was the chef's confusing way of telling me that my neighbor's fish was overcooked and mine was not.<br />
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One ongoing issue that always makes me a little crazy is that some students still don't understand that there are eight of us in our practicum, meaning that all ingredients need to be divided equally eight ways even if it's less than what the recipe calls for. On many occasions things run out before the slower students (I) can get to them, requiring that we have to "borrow" from our classmates. In this instance the black olives were gone before two or three of us got to them and they were already made into the tapenade. As a solution, we combined all of the tapenades into one and divided it among ourselves. This made the presentation of our final plates particularly entertaining because the chefs would evaluate each one differently (too much garlic, not enough salt, just right, etc.) not realizing that they were all from the same batch. Of course, when Poupard tried my tapenade he bit into a lemon seed, but protesting that I didn't actually make it seemed unwise.<br />
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Smelling of sweat and fish we joined the rest of our class in the cuisine demonstration with Chef Caals. This lesson focused on the cuisine from the Burgundy region of France where they are perhaps best known for their snails. Not to disappoint, Caals made tasty puff pastries filled with escargot and a mushroom mixture. The main course was a braised chicken and savory <i>crapiaux</i> (flapjacks). For dessert he made gingerbread and gingerbread ice cream, causing the whole room to smell like Christmas and making me deliriously happy.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOwxaY-7NDITr5B9pWYSrm7VOcXMPapupqjHTUCJdH-y6De46GKE9iHscdxRexAmo7IvktlDzDzGdX7Wu6LZ3uF_1oXR5kEHcrqEHLNE6N4wIoG_rOf0XTGfhzxKY7R0riN3o6nCoQhQ/s1600/IC5_We_D2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOwxaY-7NDITr5B9pWYSrm7VOcXMPapupqjHTUCJdH-y6De46GKE9iHscdxRexAmo7IvktlDzDzGdX7Wu6LZ3uF_1oXR5kEHcrqEHLNE6N4wIoG_rOf0XTGfhzxKY7R0riN3o6nCoQhQ/s1600/IC5_We_D2.JPG" height="301" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Chicken & "crapiaux;" Puff pastry & snails; Gingerbread</td></tr>
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The second cuisine practicum immediately followed the demonstration and another chef, an older gentleman whom I had never seen before, led the charge. He spoke no English and gave several passionate lectures to us in French even though only two of us had even a basic grasp of what he was saying, so mostly we just nodded and said, "Oui, Chef," a lot (which doesn't always work - he gave me a rather wild-eyed stare at one point). I wasn't even sure in the end if my dish was acceptable, although I'm fairly certain that he liked my sauce.<br />
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<i><u>Thursday</u></i><br />
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Though complex, I felt that the Jamaica shouldn't be too difficult. It required that we cut long strips of the sponge cake the width of our elbow spatula to line the ring mold; however, what I hadn't counted on was that my spatula was a good bit wider than the ones provided in our knife kits (I bought a new one from <a href="http://eshop.e-dehillerin.fr/" target="_blank">Dehillerin</a> after my school-issued one was stolen). When we added the second layer of mousse which was supposed to stand above the cake rim, I realized my mistake but could do little to fix it. The good news is that Chef Olivier, the one who likes to fail me and nearly did, is on vacation for several weeks and Chef Tranchant is much more understanding.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAZ4DiK-SEdWHaC6C2CEuBMsLnsVVbn2uA_bCb_48Wmt2W_GQCzWp5C9_qKK3CJ1eVpKInJm7JYjMK5taAro55Saez9BR-0oV3AS4BKy9SLnUqgXtrpVuJZJI5q72lEJ41rbs1P8Z0gQ/s1600/IP3_Th_P1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAZ4DiK-SEdWHaC6C2CEuBMsLnsVVbn2uA_bCb_48Wmt2W_GQCzWp5C9_qKK3CJ1eVpKInJm7JYjMK5taAro55Saez9BR-0oV3AS4BKy9SLnUqgXtrpVuJZJI5q72lEJ41rbs1P8Z0gQ/s1600/IP3_Th_P1.JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Class Jamaicas - how they <i>should</i> look</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj71Nk6qd0MCB6h1E6SoIkrV0DeYZS8pKX-LsK9p7u-3EKiK7cDjdmMuGZuLzvi_qB3eEd2MHXU5NmzoFJh1Ud5HR7BKMWYZRp_GApjNCgjg2aHiUuwC5u-dufyni5eKCnqtdHa45Llug/s1600/photo+3.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj71Nk6qd0MCB6h1E6SoIkrV0DeYZS8pKX-LsK9p7u-3EKiK7cDjdmMuGZuLzvi_qB3eEd2MHXU5NmzoFJh1Ud5HR7BKMWYZRp_GApjNCgjg2aHiUuwC5u-dufyni5eKCnqtdHa45Llug/s1600/photo+3.JPG" height="246" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My wide-spatula version</td></tr>
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Class finished by 11:00 AM and our next class wasn't until 6:30 PM, so I went home and promptly fell asleep while trying to read. We came back in the evening to a cuisine demonstration again with Chef Caals. He made a fabulous chicken salad with walnuts and Granny Smith apples, a not-so-fabulous sea bream fillet wrapped in lettuce with shrimp forcemeat and a side of Jerusalem artichokes, and little puff pastry tarts filled with Mirliton batter and apricots and topped with rosemary-infused sorbet.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6HsllKR46LBjV-WnLBQEpsl-QOVO9o5Jokf14xLLUEf6-cYUTkJVcFJwbqtUq7MVMvBDBwCYAxYczRNy5vI77RXqB06TMuaDTLXqVm-8c6lJL0P6mHgiSMUpI3TNGD6jP9AdCuaEyKA/s1600/IC6_Th_D1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6HsllKR46LBjV-WnLBQEpsl-QOVO9o5Jokf14xLLUEf6-cYUTkJVcFJwbqtUq7MVMvBDBwCYAxYczRNy5vI77RXqB06TMuaDTLXqVm-8c6lJL0P6mHgiSMUpI3TNGD6jP9AdCuaEyKA/s1600/IC6_Th_D1.JPG" height="100" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Chicken salad; Stuffed sea bream; Apricot & rosemary Mirliton</td></tr>
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<i><u>Friday</u></i><br />
<br />
The first class of the day was a pastry demonstration with Chef Tranchant at 12:30. In what I'm guessing was an effort to quell talking, the class translator called all fifty-something of us into the room one at a time and assigned us seats. I enjoyed the change, though - for the first time ever I was able to sit in the front row. Tranchant made what is probably my favorite dessert in all of our classes to date, the Fraisier - a Genoise sponge cake with a mousseline cream and lots of fresh strawberries and topped with Italian meringue.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic6jhFzVZyh9anr2g4vVGNc-7cLN5838LLLRzMSEVzb6M60l1I9_M2uDI-9W7UGgRNq8oCzuMHWkoKCGmO17AoCTN-b13EJG89rP5aqi4IbZfn-NPl3934khC8oPbUHD-TAmquJiiaSg/s1600/IP4_Fr_D2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic6jhFzVZyh9anr2g4vVGNc-7cLN5838LLLRzMSEVzb6M60l1I9_M2uDI-9W7UGgRNq8oCzuMHWkoKCGmO17AoCTN-b13EJG89rP5aqi4IbZfn-NPl3934khC8oPbUHD-TAmquJiiaSg/s1600/IP4_Fr_D2.JPG" height="313" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fraisiers</td></tr>
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Our first intermediate pastry theory class immediately followed the demonstration. Tranchant gave us a brief lesson on chocolate - where it comes from, how cocoa powder and cocoa butter are made, what the types of chocolate are - and then took us through the process of tempering chocolate for decorations, a skill that will likely end up as the technical portion of our final exam. He ended the class by showing us how to write with the chocolate, something that we'll be putting into practice next week on our Opera cakes.<br />
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From the theory class we headed to our evening cuisine practicum to make the stuffed sea bream fillets. Another new and nameless chef was in charge, but he soon became my favorite chef <i>ever</i>. Aside from the fact that his voice sounded like <a href="http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0000614/" target="_blank">Alan Rickman</a> with a French accent, he was incredibly laid-back and calm or as some might say, "chill." He peeled the garlic, ginger, and shallots, setting them aside in a bowl for everyone, and even when he was critical he was likable. When I finished way last because I forgot to boil my lettuce leaves and then overcooked them and had to do them again, he never yelled or told me to hurry and he stated that my fish was "perfect." To top it all off, while I was cleaning up my utensils he scrubbed down my stove for me. That's the joy of a new chef - he's not cranky, tired, and irritated with all of us yet.<br />
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<i><u>Saturday</u></i><br />
<br />
We had only one morning class before we were officially finished for the weekend. Most of us were pretty excited about the Fraisier, stating that it was the one dessert that we wouldn't be giving away or storing in the freezer. This dessert was going really well for me, too - I had fallen behind because this particular kitchen had shared stoves and I had to wait for a spot, but once the batter was mixed and baked I assembled my cake quickly, becoming the the first person to finish the cream and strawberry layers. This was surely going to become my first big "nailed-it" day in pastry!<br />
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The chefs always make the Italian meringues for the entire class in the mixer but Chef William decided that I should learn how to do it. He pulled me over to test the syrup - it has to be 225 degrees Fahrenheit - but he wanted me to use my fingers instead of a thermometer. I had done it before - it involves dipping your fingers in ice water, grabbing some of the boiling syrup, and dipping it back in the cold water to check the texture - but it terrifies me. My fears were well-founded, too, because I was burning the dickens out of my fingers although I tried to conceal my grimace of pain from the chef. But we made the meringue and it was time to finish our cakes.<br />
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My meringue went on smoothly, I torched the top beautifully - the chef was watching and even gave a little clap and "bravo" - and the jelly glaze was perfect, but when I removed the metal ring mold, the plastic lining that protects the cream came out with it, tearing up all of my edges. The chef tried to help me hide the messy rim by putting a smaller piping tip over the one that I was using and starting a decorative edge, but when I took over the piping bag from him I made matters worse by forgetting about the second tip and knocking it out onto my cake multiple times, creating a sort of spastic edge.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmcL5XWya_nIhYXxcuA0EhJ-rJVxr-iiIQoUJTctwXoiMbrt4D9qVRy8lVxExgwAPT1znWaQF53u1Dre0exwNYMXmldbXmiK5wGO1aO8fzBMP8MwrCUve_DdrBvOSMebcoTkOxnK14Jw/s1600/IP4_Sa_P1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmcL5XWya_nIhYXxcuA0EhJ-rJVxr-iiIQoUJTctwXoiMbrt4D9qVRy8lVxExgwAPT1znWaQF53u1Dre0exwNYMXmldbXmiK5wGO1aO8fzBMP8MwrCUve_DdrBvOSMebcoTkOxnK14Jw/s1600/IP4_Sa_P1.JPG" height="171" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Class Fraisiers</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjINQoOiE4hle4EDnptt3vst7yuEU5h5b5PQ8F07UnwDKqN5S9AvzRlypWN2E-HdCb0BnMcnMF10_t9wgF-LfxX93VjKPKO4IpExmuFZg1rv26lN0wn9clj0adJqrl_tRo359UDNflaxg/s1600/IP4_Sa_P2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjINQoOiE4hle4EDnptt3vst7yuEU5h5b5PQ8F07UnwDKqN5S9AvzRlypWN2E-HdCb0BnMcnMF10_t9wgF-LfxX93VjKPKO4IpExmuFZg1rv26lN0wn9clj0adJqrl_tRo359UDNflaxg/s1600/IP4_Sa_P2.JPG" height="243" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My post-apocalyptic Fraisier (but check out that center torching job!)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
The most significant happening of the week came when I received an email from the school with a link to the application for an internship and a deadline of September 22. I already knew that it was coming this semester but hardly thought that it would be so soon. My heart sank a little when the document requirements included proof of health insurance, something that I had avoided up til now. After finding some online insurance quotes and going back through my budget spreadsheets to run the numbers, the possibility of an internship still seemed feasible - tough, but feasible.<br />
<br />
What consequently is not feasible anymore is extra travel, birthday and Christmas gifts, new clothes, vitamins, hair salons, groceries, or any other unnecessary spending. I'll have to move to another studio or rent a room when my lease ends in March - I'll need something cheaper and preferably within walking distance of wherever the school assigns me - and in the unlikely event that I can secure both cuisine and pastry internships I may have to move locations for each one. Upon the completion of the internship(s) I will come home quite literally penniless. These are the best-case scenarios - I still don't have a backup plan if I don't pass my intermediate or superior levels.<br />
<br />
When these ulcer-forming thoughts invade my mind I have to remind myself once again that God is still in control of everything. The Israelites wandered around in the wilderness for 40 years without their shoes and clothes wearing out; surely God can see me through another six to ten months in Paris and whatever follows after that. For now (assuming that I can get health insurance before the 22nd) I'll fill out the application and request both internships, praying while I wait that God will open or close the door as He sees fit and that I'll joyfully accept His decision either way... and maybe think of non-nefarious ways to earn a little extra cash.</div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15818532587630238644noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7055176771372598926.post-27710505427389520582014-09-08T10:09:00.000-07:002014-11-08T12:34:09.658-08:00Intermediate Week OneAfter last week's crybaby fest that once again made me sound like I was going through some sort of medieval torture device call "Paris," I decided that I should throw out a few other things about this city that I actually find kind of cool.<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>Flour trucks. I can't tell you how exciting it was to see flour being blown into a boulangerie on my way to school the other morning. So much flour...</li>
</ul>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtOcjF_BpHvzNC-y3DoyczM2BEzCq3-3pABALArBlooUhqgI74A-ok4QvhpK0NWa8HlsqHioa3Ez92T5Iosz5FGLNMp3NU1vpae4I8Q0pbE7-0h4ntm3oDCWNxz8DRGKTS4bj9u-L71w/s1600/FlourTruck+(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtOcjF_BpHvzNC-y3DoyczM2BEzCq3-3pABALArBlooUhqgI74A-ok4QvhpK0NWa8HlsqHioa3Ez92T5Iosz5FGLNMp3NU1vpae4I8Q0pbE7-0h4ntm3oDCWNxz8DRGKTS4bj9u-L71w/s1600/FlourTruck+(2).JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.maison-kayser.com/" target="_blank">Eric Kayser</a> getting a fill-up</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<ul>
<li>Walking. My mile-long walk to and from school can get a little monotonous at times, but on the rare occasions that I have a day off I find it pretty enjoyable just to take a stroll to some area that I haven't yet visited. This past Saturday I made my way down past the Eiffel Tower to the Champs-Elysée via avenue George V. Even someone who hates shopping as much as I do can't resist the thrill of gazing through the windows of places like <a href="http://www.givenchy.com/en/" target="_blank">Givenchy</a>, <a href="http://www.cartier.us/" target="_blank">Cartier</a>, and <a href="http://www.ysl.com/us" target="_blank">Yves Saint Laurent</a>, or stealing glances into the lobby of the <a href="http://www.princedegallesparis.com/" target="_blank">Prince de Galles Hotel</a>.</li>
<li>Salted butter. Yeah, I've already talked about butter probably a dozen times, but then I tried this <a href="http://www.grand-fermage.fr/beurre-cristaux-sel" target="_blank">Grand Fermage with sea salt butter</a> - it actually has big chunks of salt in it - and I'm completely addicted. It's also really, really good with honey. On a related note, baguettes last only a day around here before going stale. Although I <i>could </i>eat one baguette per day, I try to limit myself; hence I discovered that you can slice up stale baguettes and saute them in butter (unsalted or clarified). Of course, you still add the salted butter on top of that and it's <i>merveilleux</i>.</li>
</ul>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOZ7ahLXzynIj3PQ4rH5za8wflRL6qDn9QJZp1-wRs-g55dTapmDM6reqpsoamTbJlkQPVouIDZiS0k7JWxO72P7PfFWSWZ6px7MrEgsjlQcPBKGcMimcpMJJUOzoPQTM0yxLOv1SJEA/s1600/photo+(3).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOZ7ahLXzynIj3PQ4rH5za8wflRL6qDn9QJZp1-wRs-g55dTapmDM6reqpsoamTbJlkQPVouIDZiS0k7JWxO72P7PfFWSWZ6px7MrEgsjlQcPBKGcMimcpMJJUOzoPQTM0yxLOv1SJEA/s1600/photo+(3).JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<br />
<br />
<i><u>Tuesday</u></i><br />
<br />
The week got off to a slow start - Monday was the basic students' orientation and we were asked to keep away from the school until Tuesday. Sauntering into <a href="http://www.cordonbleu.edu/lcb-paris/en" target="_blank">Le Cordon Bleu</a> that afternoon with the haughtiness that comes from having obtained veteran status (after only 10 weeks), we picked up new locker numbers, new recipe notebooks, and (for those of us who skipped graduation) our basic certificates and transcripts.<br />
<br />
On the plus side, my locker is now located on the lower level and not in front of the door that opens to the Winter Garden, meaning that changing time requires less creativity. On the down side the locker room is not air conditioned (but only two weeks of summer remain!) and the lockers are stacked three-high rather than two, requiring some strategic shoving and quick door slams to keep everything from tumbling out onto the heads of the two people below me. Incidentally, it's a good time to remember to keep my knife bag zipped closed.<br />
<br />
Chef Tranchant kicked off the new semester with a pastry demonstration, first offering a brief lecture on how we were now intermediate students and thus at a higher expectation level, which in demonstrations translates primarily not to leaving class in order to use the toilet... er, <i>restroom</i>, making it similar to the transition from K-5 to first grade. He then proceeded to whip up an apricot streusel, almond cake, and Scottish cake.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw8HsUF0n44V54Fr9WzqKz9pXznh3qVDIBibD-ZyypLVbryNU-mWI-lFSX4xp5Ag7VRDzVoA4Z-3BvcxhG37FK9nofqmUzTsmmz6OFAnmY_kcPAFSrhzIoolG9ILoKNWsZ7XEfkzlCqw/s1600/IPDTu_Streusel+(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw8HsUF0n44V54Fr9WzqKz9pXznh3qVDIBibD-ZyypLVbryNU-mWI-lFSX4xp5Ag7VRDzVoA4Z-3BvcxhG37FK9nofqmUzTsmmz6OFAnmY_kcPAFSrhzIoolG9ILoKNWsZ7XEfkzlCqw/s1600/IPDTu_Streusel+(2).JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Almond cake, apricot streusel, and Scottish cake</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
We proceeded from our pastry demonstration to our cuisine demonstration with Chef Bogen who once again seemed a bit "out of sorts," or as a fellow student put it, "high." Intermediate cuisine focuses on French regional recipes, so Tuesday's lesson centered on the Basque region whose claim to fame is the Espelette pepper (not to be confused with an <i>espadrille</i>, although I referred to it as such a few times). Bogen bumbled through salmon and watercress salad, sauteed Basque-style chicken with saffron rice, and a Gascon-style apple tart made from phyllo dough, slightly burned on the outside and not cooked well on the inside.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQPQSKcg4spi5d4dZQGnhOupSR-xWqJrKGXk03GTj_J3xCqbChqXZriNh8fJbyUlpG8Smncd1uZakJ9NdsfhN9fTitZv_ZW-st5h_NcUKpkBBgTVBoWVxbFFwREAW8ZwoGIEcmXyeG3w/s1600/ICDTu_BasqueChix+(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQPQSKcg4spi5d4dZQGnhOupSR-xWqJrKGXk03GTj_J3xCqbChqXZriNh8fJbyUlpG8Smncd1uZakJ9NdsfhN9fTitZv_ZW-st5h_NcUKpkBBgTVBoWVxbFFwREAW8ZwoGIEcmXyeG3w/s1600/ICDTu_BasqueChix+(2).JPG" height="95" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sauteed chicken & saffron rice; watercress & salmon salad; apple tart</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<i><u>Wednesday</u></i><br />
<br />
Our first practicum was in pastry making the streusel and almond cake. It felt similar to our basic-level courses, or at least to how those courses felt towards the end of the term, but my puff pastry streusel crust was far from looking like I had advanced beyond basic (although it was in keeping with someone who got a 52% on her final exam). During the down-time of waiting for our pastries to bake, Chef Tranchant had us practice making paper cones and writing/drawing with tempered chocolate on the backs of metal trays - another horrifying exhibition of my bleak artistic talents.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfvN7KrP_mPQMBmLub7_BxF7IvbxtWk5mA1DmSrLqmrndIfNJnrApDDwWePGfrq2k0XYuT8huuARIw7P1qKL4okwA542kBdlVayluEwwK9rFthP8CaJjfAdfPy8tXG1BTc0SB6-AgMcQ/s1600/IPPTh_Streusel+(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfvN7KrP_mPQMBmLub7_BxF7IvbxtWk5mA1DmSrLqmrndIfNJnrApDDwWePGfrq2k0XYuT8huuARIw7P1qKL4okwA542kBdlVayluEwwK9rFthP8CaJjfAdfPy8tXG1BTc0SB6-AgMcQ/s1600/IPPTh_Streusel+(2).JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tranchant is obsessed with a straight pastry line</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
That afternoon we moved on to our cuisine practicum with the visiting chef from Istanbul who was leaving us on Sunday. Admittedly, I wasn't terribly upset to see him go, but he was very relaxed and more easy-going than in our previous classes and it was almost endearing to hear him casually mention about three times that it was his last time with us before we finally caught on and told him how much he would be missed.<br />
<br />
This cuisine practicum wasn't much different than our basic-level courses either - more like starting up where we left off last term. We had two new students in our little group of eight - Dao, a girl from Thailand who had completed her basic level there, and Brian, a boy from China who had finished his basic courses in 2012. For a while it felt good to be the subject matter expert and help out the new kids, but they still finished before me and with better results. My sauteed chicken was an unhealthy shade of pink when we cut into it although the chef proclaimed that it wasn't too bad - "I'm French so it would be fine, but an Englishman would send back his plate." I just crinkled my nose and replied, "As would an American."<br />
<br />
<i><u>Thursday</u></i><br />
<br />
What <i>was</i> different from our basic level is that we didn't ease into the new semester, with Thursday being the first 12-hour class day. We began the morning with Chef Caals, back from his month-long vacation and, as one of the other chefs awkwardly put it, looking tan and fit. He gave us a brief lecture on expectations for intermediate students as well which again emphasized not visiting the toilet in the middle of class. This demo was one of the few that was not region-specific and consisted of a shellfish soup with garlic glaze, Savoy cabbage stuffed with salmon, and wild strawberry gratin. It wasn't one of my favorite dishes but appeared easy enough to prepare (always famous last words).<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpN1VjLYs0BJ9kOtPZv2l75j69EhPCdZTMmxe_2W7bxovJwx8zD7XzRq2xnRsXFToHOdC8QynHR5-AJ5rSX5PqbasqvXl6Rfc3a8sHVrE_Bb5JpH_kLblvij1MM5nhiGhj1ZJpqT_XlA/s1600/ICDTh_StuffedCabbage+(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpN1VjLYs0BJ9kOtPZv2l75j69EhPCdZTMmxe_2W7bxovJwx8zD7XzRq2xnRsXFToHOdC8QynHR5-AJ5rSX5PqbasqvXl6Rfc3a8sHVrE_Bb5JpH_kLblvij1MM5nhiGhj1ZJpqT_XlA/s1600/ICDTh_StuffedCabbage+(2).JPG" height="95" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Stuffed Savoy cabbage; shellfish soup; strawberry gratin</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Our cuisine practicum followed lunch. Most of the time centered on chopping carrots, celery, onions, mushrooms, and ham into a fine brunoise and thinly slicing cabbage, but after that it was just a matter of wrapping up salmon and the stuffing in cabbage leaves before dropping them into some boiling water for about ten minutes. Unfortunately I forgot about this last step and didn't have boiling water ready, adding about another ten minutes to my time as I waited, but chef instructed us to boil only one of the two cabbages to save time.<br />
<br />
As the last person to plate my dish, I finally called to Caals to come check it. He cut open my cabbage and the salmon was raw - he didn't even bother tasting it. Confused as to how it could have been so under-cooked, I began packing away my food, grabbing the second cabbage to put in a box. It was surprisingly hot for being uncooked, but then like Sherlock Holmes the realization dawned upon me that I had plated the wrong cabbage. Calling the chef back over, I sheepishly explained my error. He returned with a smirk on his face, testing the cooked salmon and stating that it was okay but giving me a look that said I was quite possibly the biggest idiot in the school's history.<br />
<br />
That afternoon we joined Chef Olivier, the one who likes to say, "If this were the exam you would fail," a lot (and almost did fail me on the exam), for a demonstration on passion fruit and raspberry tarts and lemon tarts. The latter was actually one of my favorite pastries to date but not, unfortunately, one that we would be repeating in our practicum.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF6CcfBgG8cM-IQ4MWPHhK60veU4CONQq57Zx6r2WR2S-p5wIWgzs5mXPX9r5_3dv6XQmKMrmKbQ9xeIUdlxJeIDmwyfnlbK1TukJtQUPwWLK8xumwmtXj-VXr0OEAI9GKqsgiNEJGCw/s1600/IPDTh_PassionTart+(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF6CcfBgG8cM-IQ4MWPHhK60veU4CONQq57Zx6r2WR2S-p5wIWgzs5mXPX9r5_3dv6XQmKMrmKbQ9xeIUdlxJeIDmwyfnlbK1TukJtQUPwWLK8xumwmtXj-VXr0OEAI9GKqsgiNEJGCw/s1600/IPDTh_PassionTart+(2).JPG" height="172" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lemon tart and the less enjoyable passion fruit & raspberry tart</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
In the evening we had our pastry practicum with Olivier again. I was doing quite well until I messed up my tart crust while transferring it to the ring mold, which meant that I had to reshape it and stick it back into the freezer to harden up while the rest of the class proceeded with their tarts. In the end it didn't matter, though, because the assistants had brought up raspberry jam instead of raspberry purée, and in a purely basic-level move all 14 of us ignorantly used it to make our raspberry coulis. Olivier, bordering on a complete meltdown, ordered everyone to throw out their coulis and start over as he scribbled down the assistants' names while saying menacingly, "I want to remember you."<br />
<br />
I actually found the situation to be quite humorous, possibly because it caught me up to the rest of the class, and Olivier eventually calmed down although he kept repeating, "Never in all my life has such a thing happened," and "You see the big bucket with 'raspberry jam' on it and you just use it without questioning?!?" He threw in several, <i>oh la la</i>s as well and when I asked, "But won't this make a good story to tell at home tonight?" he just rolled his eyes, replying, "I hope never to remember again."<br />
<br />
<i><u>Friday</u></i><br />
<br />
As a reprieve from the previous day, Friday contained only one cuisine demonstration in the morning before we were finished with classes for the week. Chef Poupard, the "map" chef, talked to us about the Normandy region for the first half hour of class (but not before a warning that as intermediate students we were not to leave class to use the toilet). Just as he prepared to start making the food, a student raised her hand and said that Chef Bogen never gave us a regional talk in Tuesday's demo. Poupard, always delighted to discuss French regional cuisine, gave another half-hour talk on the Basque region while the rest of us shot death glares at the offending student.<br />
<br />
Poupard, upon realizing that we were now over an hour into the class, began hurriedly throwing together fish stew, pan-roasted guinea fowl, and an apple tart with creamy caramel sauce. The crayfish for the soup were alive which created a bit of trauma when the chef cooked them to death after pulling out their intestines by the tail (no, we won't be making these in practicum), and the demonstration was slightly chaotic and rushed, ending about an hour late, but he created an excellent meal. The apple tarts were especially amazing, making the wait quite worth it.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZbpUSLs6qRf1revMW7bUxbXZqFyH3nMoZLsmjdSX8YlRZoj_saod61c9mtikb5Y2u9M-8f_-YnyYWmnpy06S2IifimtAgGu6IH6cbYdHy7sxvXLl14ih_TB26lnmtk56uGn0WSZOr3Q/s1600/ICDFri_GuineaFowl+(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZbpUSLs6qRf1revMW7bUxbXZqFyH3nMoZLsmjdSX8YlRZoj_saod61c9mtikb5Y2u9M-8f_-YnyYWmnpy06S2IifimtAgGu6IH6cbYdHy7sxvXLl14ih_TB26lnmtk56uGn0WSZOr3Q/s1600/ICDFri_GuineaFowl+(2).JPG" height="88" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pan-roasted guinea fowl; fish stew with dry cider; apple tart with creamy caramel</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
One positive outcome from this week is that I regained some of the old excitement from the first semester. It started around the time that we received our recipe notebooks and I started flipping through the table of contents, or more specifically when I saw that we would be making baguettes and macaroons this term. All of the recipes fill me with happy anticipation, though, even if the reality is that most of them will be a challenge and at times a catastrophe. Sure, I still cringe a little when I see that we'll be cleaning a chicken or a fish but, to use a dental analogy, it's now more like a cavity filling than a root canal, and I sense/hope/pray that by November it will be more like brushing my teeth.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15818532587630238644noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7055176771372598926.post-46103387173331010032014-09-02T16:08:00.000-07:002014-09-02T16:08:13.882-07:00InterludeWow - Those ten days off went by <i>really </i>quickly. Our schedules for next semester finally appeared online like a reality punch right in the face. Although my experience is removed by a few years, the feeling is something akin to my college days in super-fast motion - jumping into the sophomore year feeling slightly less excited than in those naive freshman days when I thought that I was going to conquer the world only to discover that it was an uphill battle.<br />
<br />
[I<i>n case any of you were wondering, I did pass both basic pastry and cuisine. Ironically, I barely passed the pastry final exam (52%) although I thought that one was in the bag, and I did relatively well on the cuisine final (78%) even though I feared that I had failed.</i>]<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgByJgXG2KOFqRqu23KE3noJ7NSvwFP2FKHQKDoWrK8Bquo3XXjNlJGuVH13hbWGH1aEQDdUtE5X8wCTiLuVz8GP60t1rGQ4WUxIN55JZ55SPirOfHP_r2_qx2geXJmsGlKVE8P5kWCFQ/s1600/BasicCertificate.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgByJgXG2KOFqRqu23KE3noJ7NSvwFP2FKHQKDoWrK8Bquo3XXjNlJGuVH13hbWGH1aEQDdUtE5X8wCTiLuVz8GP60t1rGQ4WUxIN55JZ55SPirOfHP_r2_qx2geXJmsGlKVE8P5kWCFQ/s1600/BasicCertificate.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Proof</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
While I'm a bit more wary upon entering the intermediate stage, I do arrive with renewed hope. The good thing about a rather chaotic semester is that I learned several valuable lessons (aside from cooking and pastry) - how to study, how to prepare better for practicums and exams, how to manage my time - stuff that I was starting to figure out (mostly from my mistakes) late in game during the basic stage. Thanks to a thoughtful friend from the States, I also have some contraband college-ruled spiral notebooks and cute little note cards on a ring to make flashcards. Of course, during my college days I also believed that I would develop better habits with each new semester... but I'm older and mature now so it shouldn't be a problem, right??<br />
<br />
Speaking of friends, my friend Leslie flew into town last Sunday bringing me the joy of a familiar face, fun times catching up and reminiscing over the good ol' days, a sightseeing companion, and perhaps best of all, the wonderful sound of a southern accent. Her introduction to Paris was delayed by a day thanks to some incompetent airline issues, so she arrived somewhat disheveled after two days in planes and airports and spending a night in New Jersey.<br />
<br />
Leslie's introduction to the Paris metro after I met her at the airport wasn't much better. The train started then quickly sped up while she wasn't holding onto anything, forcing her into, as she called it, a "Godzilla walk" down the aisle with nothing to grab onto before her upper body momentum won over her legs. Her forehead bouncing off of a seat somewhat broke her fall but her knee took most of the impact. She had a goose egg growing on her head and what appeared to be a second knee developing on her left leg, so we headed back to my studio where she could freshen up before her first introduction to a French restaurant and "customer service."<br />
<br />
We tried a little place nearby that unbeknownst to us didn't serve lunch until sometime after 12:00 (it was around 11:30). Nobody told us that they weren't serving lunch - they simply ignored us for about 15 minutes before we got up and moved down the street to another café. The staff there was more welcoming in the sense that they brought us menus and eventually food. From there we hopped the metro again to take Leslie to her hotel where the desk clerk, after explaining about the free "wee-fee," agreed to bring up an ice pack for Leslie's knee. He appeared at the door a few minutes later with a bag of ice about the size of a golf ball, probably all of the ice on the entire premises (the French are ice Nazis). I left Les to recover for the rest the afternoon and evening, hopeful that tomorrow would be more promising.<br />
<br />
Monday morning I introduced Les to pain au chocolat at a little pastry shop near <a href="http://www.notredamedeparis.fr/-English-" target="_blank">Notre Dame Cathedral</a> before we did our tour. At some point during our breakfast the conversation wandered off into, "Just think, you're living in Paris!" Replying that the fascination was wearing off - had worn off shortly after my arrival - I explained how the big city and even the amazing old historical sites get old to me while things like the Carolinas in the fall or road trips through the Blue Ridge Parkway (actually, the freedom to hop in the car and go anywhere whenever I feel like it) or just the pleasure of simple family gatherings never gets old. Before I knew it I was in tears which quickly changed to the two of laughing over the ridiculousness of my emotions and how splendidly Leslie's trip was going so far. It was one of the best laughs that I've had in about three months.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaxOXc1_-b7BIBAve4sgxF6VRBxsenxXWv_s7QBOAEMOTjv1FH-fi1B8qntz5uxSlJ-BrqRLQR7jqR-wk-E0ewGucgRU9YQdGmsMUFNa_d1hCsnl3IYaIRKo5_XPfWSOeGAHJa7BpgbA/s1600/photo+(1).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaxOXc1_-b7BIBAve4sgxF6VRBxsenxXWv_s7QBOAEMOTjv1FH-fi1B8qntz5uxSlJ-BrqRLQR7jqR-wk-E0ewGucgRU9YQdGmsMUFNa_d1hCsnl3IYaIRKo5_XPfWSOeGAHJa7BpgbA/s1600/photo+(1).JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.nps.gov/carl/index.htm" target="_blank">Carl Sandburg</a>'s home last fall. Seriously, could it ever get old?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
After touring Notre Dame we made our way through the <a href="http://www.senat.fr/visite/jardin/index.html" target="_blank">Luxembourg Gardens</a> despite the sporadic rain showers, but the cold, damp weather soon had us looking for a metro station. As we were studying the map at a bus stop a little boy about ten or eleven years of age appeared beside me, asking if we would like some help. My first inclination was to shoo him off and grasp my purse a little tighter, but he was completely adorable with rosy cheeks and a wavy brown mop of hair, more of an Oliver Twist than Artful Dodger character. We still kept a tight hold on our purses, but when I told him that we were looking for the closest metro station he pointed in the general direction, then ran ahead of us in the rain, looking back to make sure that we were following. I began to fumble for my wallet to give him a euro for helping us, but he ran off with a wave and "Have a nice day!" Seriously, if he were wearing an adoption sign I would have a son right now.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQWklf5dvqHpAXGV9Bdn1fOgABDXR3CQiQxCCD1GvvxvoDmYvT8AEaCtmc7XTNkWkNfbdYzF6Mz_EIXk_VI6KDY63Ph4HRrMx4KMh8OhNbxrFTiwSSxDLbSBM-yUOZvt1Q8Uy4NpPf6A/s1600/photo+3+(8).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQWklf5dvqHpAXGV9Bdn1fOgABDXR3CQiQxCCD1GvvxvoDmYvT8AEaCtmc7XTNkWkNfbdYzF6Mz_EIXk_VI6KDY63Ph4HRrMx4KMh8OhNbxrFTiwSSxDLbSBM-yUOZvt1Q8Uy4NpPf6A/s1600/photo+3+(8).JPG" height="216" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Medicis Fountain at Luxembourg Gardens</td></tr>
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<br />
Later that evening we stopped off to buy a case of water and had dinner near Leslie's hotel at <a href="http://www.quick.fr/" target="_blank">Quick</a>, a fast food hamburger place. Towards the end of the meal a young man, heavily intoxicated, came in and stood by us, pointing across our table and slurring something in French (he seemed to want our drink cups for a refill or he might have been asking for a water bottle from the case). Another guy came in and seemed to be trying to reason with him while Les and I exchanged nervous glances with each other. Finally, the drunk and his friend left and we made our escape, Leslie going to her hotel and me heading to the metro.<br />
<br />
While waiting for the train, a man standing next to me (he was from Sarajevo on business, as it turned out) asked in English if I needed help holding my case of water. It was small and non-problematic so I smiled politely and said, "No thanks." Out of my peripheral vision I could see him still watching me and a moment later he asked, "Are you sure that you don't need help?" I refused again, but not to be easily deterred, he was soon asking where I was from and if I lived alone and if I was in a hurry to get home. Without <i>exactly </i>lying I gave him the impression that I had a friend staying with me. Still undeterred, he then asked my age and I, feeling quite confident that it would finally get rid of him (he looked to be about 32), said that I was 40. He acted surprised but not discouraged, so I began to play up just how old I was ("Yep, 40! Feeling every day of it, too. I'll be 41 in two months!").<br />
<br />
Apparently a fan of older woman (and a little tipsy?), he continued talking to me after we boarded the train, trying to convince me to have dinner with him the next evening, to bring my friend for dinner, or to find a French boyfriend for my friend and we could tell him about American culture and he could teach us about Sarajevo culture, which he followed with an elbow nudge and wink-wink that completely creeped me out. Finally as we neared his stop, he lamented over what bad timing it was that we had met at such an inconvenient time ("I hope if your friend had not been here you would've said, 'Yes'"), as if we were two star-crossed lovers.<br />
<br />
Because the the night hadn't yet been bizarre/scary enough, when I finally reached my studio and stood punching in the gate code I heard shouts of "Madame! Madame!" behind me. After the gate opened agonizingly slow I walked briskly through the courtyard to the lobby door and, unable to get out my key with the water bottles in my arm, began punching in the door code as speedily as the fat, heavy buttons would allow while the voice and footsteps quickly grew closer. The thought crossed my mind that perhaps I had dropped something on my way and I finally dared to turn around. A man stood inside the gate babbling at me in French but, not wanting to take the time to try and understand what he was saying or asking, I just blurted out, "I don't speak French!" and finally got into the door, scurrying up to my studio and double bolting the locks.<br />
<br />
On Tuesday morning Leslie and I boarded the train to <a href="http://en.chateauversailles.fr/homepage" target="_blank">Versailles</a>. Some online research the day before warned that Tuesday could be busy because other points of interest such as the <a href="http://www.louvre.fr/en" target="_blank">Louvre</a> and <a href="http://www.musee-chateau-fontainebleau.fr/spip.php?lang=en" target="_blank">Fountainebleu</a> were closed, and indeed it was. We stood in an entry line for almost two hours in the rain before joining the swell of people inside the palace where we pushed our way from room to room, making a game of "Versailles vs. <a href="http://www.biltmore.com/" target="_blank">Biltmore</a>." By this point Leslie's injured knee was ready to call it a day although we still had an overwhelmingly vast expanse of gardens before us. Fortunately, we noticed a golf cart rental stand and soon we were zipping around the property at a brisk 10 mph, stopping to snap pictures of the Fountain of Apollo or to get yelled at by workers when we tried entering areas that required a special ticket.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGlZamKjAqpJ63rIDKxyyXv_bkhTZaaPyT5CkqNCr-S79XOlOMvohsFr1WA0TJGDOb-6hWkBdlvc3YLb1HgzsQSyC2EkNmc9vta3k-k4Fmi98CW6UcbPO-fI8_Doy9kfSOy-5dkeyY3A/s1600/Versailles1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGlZamKjAqpJ63rIDKxyyXv_bkhTZaaPyT5CkqNCr-S79XOlOMvohsFr1WA0TJGDOb-6hWkBdlvc3YLb1HgzsQSyC2EkNmc9vta3k-k4Fmi98CW6UcbPO-fI8_Doy9kfSOy-5dkeyY3A/s1600/Versailles1.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Versailles (and the crowds)</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJbZrcU2IhbniHOjLf5tXU6yMT-g5cI8F-pXxUXFuBBT0JI5Ehq8crtxpIWzVaPhChF7KZ73nhxZXVvGiZAEH5xGfhyphenhyphenJYun7ch1FjVjl9Gr3XOf9k2RbZw77uCWDvUbNsBzZPce9kiwA/s1600/IMG_0005.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJbZrcU2IhbniHOjLf5tXU6yMT-g5cI8F-pXxUXFuBBT0JI5Ehq8crtxpIWzVaPhChF7KZ73nhxZXVvGiZAEH5xGfhyphenhyphenJYun7ch1FjVjl9Gr3XOf9k2RbZw77uCWDvUbNsBzZPce9kiwA/s1600/IMG_0005.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">View from the back of Versailles</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM04ZfEs15XpswCAJszPWcVJhoI5nJTaeY7WkKWomWHywvdI-BXwJ8NZy2d3W8Wypt0wF8JYoXY4_FpCRduV9i2Uk2UzJU0jiMWrh6-txqBE7ZngClHu-5EQOwYvJ9JqoFwpzpS6Un1Q/s1600/IMG_0010.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM04ZfEs15XpswCAJszPWcVJhoI5nJTaeY7WkKWomWHywvdI-BXwJ8NZy2d3W8Wypt0wF8JYoXY4_FpCRduV9i2Uk2UzJU0jiMWrh6-txqBE7ZngClHu-5EQOwYvJ9JqoFwpzpS6Un1Q/s1600/IMG_0010.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Apollo's Fountain</td></tr>
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<br />
Hungry and tired, we left the palace in search of a restaurant only to discover that most food service stops between 2 and 7 PM (it was 3 PM), but we finally found a tea room selling pre-made sandwiches from some bygone era and managed temporarily to assuage our hunger. Determined to find a good restaurant for dinner, I did some more research back at the apartment and discovered a pizza place close by that had rave reviews; however, when we got there a sign on the door said that it was closed until September 5 because many restaurants in Paris, in addition to not serving dinner until 7, close down for the month of August. Research thrown out the window, we hit the first open restaurant that we passed. It wasn't too bad, and I had my first pizza with an egg on top because if there's one thing that the French like as much or more than butter, it is eggs. Strangely, though, it works.<br />
<br />
Wednesday was our day to visit the Louvre where another long line awaited us - probably all of the people who had visited Versailles the day before - but at least the rain was holding off. Having been around the outside of the museum several times I knew that it was big, but the enormity of it didn't strike me until we started looking for the Mona Lisa after meandering through the first few wings. In our naivety we thought that maybe we had already passed the painting and missed it, but when we finally found the signs pointing the way to her (the one wing that we hadn't come close to) the location was fairly obvious just from the hoards of people surrounding her as if she were there in person.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY0QyzwSUsWlaho1FB0Pq9jJxNGipK05x_C8uhCHDvUK2F6kQi_2-ItTfKX1HBX9731sHQ6ca05q-vOnz1hQvwvDmq8HtjELSYZD3aCOx2waOewcXK9jCpEzDch8lSCaonu_d6H-WM1Q/s1600/IMG_0021.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY0QyzwSUsWlaho1FB0Pq9jJxNGipK05x_C8uhCHDvUK2F6kQi_2-ItTfKX1HBX9731sHQ6ca05q-vOnz1hQvwvDmq8HtjELSYZD3aCOx2waOewcXK9jCpEzDch8lSCaonu_d6H-WM1Q/s1600/IMG_0021.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Louvre</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNlOSzwKbojpjBe-zB6BUin5QHmY_olxlLczuWc5YPS3AHe-4DmjpdxpKv29kzVS_CpcXt4zSTJRUL4Ku0D6LDwW7JchynqY_MBUN-8SGX_wOrjcXvHJMoDqNx3DeMvdAkBTVTpL6iHQ/s1600/photo+(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNlOSzwKbojpjBe-zB6BUin5QHmY_olxlLczuWc5YPS3AHe-4DmjpdxpKv29kzVS_CpcXt4zSTJRUL4Ku0D6LDwW7JchynqY_MBUN-8SGX_wOrjcXvHJMoDqNx3DeMvdAkBTVTpL6iHQ/s1600/photo+(2).JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Thar' she blows</td></tr>
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<br />
That afternoon Les and I popped into a few shops along my street to get some items for a picnic at the <a href="http://www.toureiffel.paris/" target="_blank">Eiffel Tower</a> that evening. From the boucherie we got chicken wings (they were actually labeled "chicken wings"), at Maison Gosselin we picked up some grapes and bananas, from <a href="http://www.maison-kayser.com/" target="_blank">Eric Kayser</a> we grabbed a baguette and macaroons, and at the fromagerie I purchased two types of cheese, asking the clerk for something not too strong for my American friend (although I'm not sure that he understood). Leslie lasted approximately one second in the fromagerie before making a quick exit - just long enough to understand why we refer to it as the "stinky cheese" store.<br />
<br />
Walking from the studio to the Eiffel Tower with our purchases and a block of butter, we parked ourselves at a bench on the Champ de Mars in front of the tower. The evening was overcast but dry and just cool enough to be comfortable in a hoodie - perfect weather for relaxing and people-watching (and there were a LOT of people to watch). Les learned firsthand about the magic of French butter although she left the cheese to me after braving a few bites. Two policemen stopped by our bench, sending me into a momentary panic attack as I tried to think about what French law we were breaking, but they just began chatting with us in English about French cheese and butter before walking away in yet another random act of Parisian adorableness for the week.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF58XPc-IAMkP9CR2KcixDtp7E0KASbqVskCXyHrTqD2zHYOge5-QsYAGM57ceDFhfX9-hmS1An7WsL9MVnGkGpRY2EhkFPbPtrkpGeaB6px6cK9N1ZwLKzhHfW5G2wvm-yMtp2Z3CGw/s1600/IMG_0037.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF58XPc-IAMkP9CR2KcixDtp7E0KASbqVskCXyHrTqD2zHYOge5-QsYAGM57ceDFhfX9-hmS1An7WsL9MVnGkGpRY2EhkFPbPtrkpGeaB6px6cK9N1ZwLKzhHfW5G2wvm-yMtp2Z3CGw/s1600/IMG_0037.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our picnic view</td></tr>
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<br />
Packing up our dinner, we once again found ourselves in another endless line to get on the elevator going to the top of the Eiffel Tower. I managed to get through two bag security checks without the checkers seeing the two butter knives that I was brandishing in spite of the multiple signs forbidding any knives, and after cramming ourselves into the elevator we successfully reached the top. The view was well worth the crowds and wait, though - not quite the amazing sunset that we hoped to catch thanks to the heavy clouds, but lovely nonetheless.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVPCAX7TE0VavllRfzMtiQr7icgJFygIhr8TUVFsqZmxZuO2hoWcQQoA08K0VCskAryqZz-Cji1RjG5y_FrTf8qeOXEjfX-QfoI-XBnaejPQlPvfAPTnh0iDEobV5JEtxgC2t_SfaA4A/s1600/IMG_0034.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVPCAX7TE0VavllRfzMtiQr7icgJFygIhr8TUVFsqZmxZuO2hoWcQQoA08K0VCskAryqZz-Cji1RjG5y_FrTf8qeOXEjfX-QfoI-XBnaejPQlPvfAPTnh0iDEobV5JEtxgC2t_SfaA4A/s1600/IMG_0034.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bird's-eye view of Paris</td></tr>
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<br />
Thursday morning we met at the Bastille to try <a href="http://www.cafe-philo-des-phares.info/" target="_blank">Café des Phares</a> which supposedly had the best croque madame sandwiches in Paris (according to one journalist's opinion). They were indeed amazing - thin slices of ham atop country bread and coated in toasted gruyère cheese with, of course, a fried egg on top. The crispy duck fat fries on the side only added to the awesomeness. Our happy little brunch was interrupted when the woman seated at the table next to us got into a fight with a man at a table in front of us before he stormed away, at which point about three tables began chattering angrily about the man who had left. The French may stereotype Americans as being loud, but when they get into arguments in public it's quite a thing to witness.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHO9GiUHtqFmMorAjxVIPItRh1oxDT9EjXw85Lr1f9WgrAF264rWYw9-r7ejbLW2TGo9Gj6zKz_-zFvZyWI4Q4jyUXaJaDISmhw8mnWH9-JryWb2YNROBDeTqbUcaInldrnuU4C3cPDg/s1600/Bastille.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHO9GiUHtqFmMorAjxVIPItRh1oxDT9EjXw85Lr1f9WgrAF264rWYw9-r7ejbLW2TGo9Gj6zKz_-zFvZyWI4Q4jyUXaJaDISmhw8mnWH9-JryWb2YNROBDeTqbUcaInldrnuU4C3cPDg/s1600/Bastille.JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our view at the Bastille for brunch</td></tr>
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<br />
The last Parisian monument that Leslie wanted to see was the <a href="http://arc-de-triomphe.monuments-nationaux.fr/" target="_blank">Arc de Triomphe</a>, so we took the metro over, getting a few pictures and avoiding a creepy clown whose only talent was whistling and twirling young children by the hand before their parents would snap a photo and give him some money to make him leave. We relaxed at the studio that afternoon before having dinner at a café close to Leslie's hotel where I had another pizza... topped with an egg.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjia85hPainl1LakkBtRehff-yJ8bb7TiDwX6yS1dM_2LDkPZe4xNtryxrt7NX7VXrbqAMGkATc5jy2dEWGadeOtu9uy5K5NDdG3jhlZt8abDEgSmxETzVqOonPYkoRjALsu0EbfID9pQ/s1600/ArcdeTriomphe.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjia85hPainl1LakkBtRehff-yJ8bb7TiDwX6yS1dM_2LDkPZe4xNtryxrt7NX7VXrbqAMGkATc5jy2dEWGadeOtu9uy5K5NDdG3jhlZt8abDEgSmxETzVqOonPYkoRjALsu0EbfID9pQ/s1600/ArcdeTriomphe.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Arc de Triomphe (and my eyes)</td></tr>
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<br />
Friday morning I accompanied Leslie back to the airport, feeling not only sad to see her go but also a little bummed that I wasn't getting on the plane as well. The reason isn't because I regret my decision to come to <a href="http://www.cordonbleu.edu/lcb-paris/en" target="_blank">Le Cordon Bleu</a>, but there is a lot to be said for going back to "normal" life - the comfort of home, a paycheck, a routine, familiar faces, restaurants that will serve you at all hours of the day - and my time in Paris often feels like a vacation that has gone on a little too long. But then the realization strikes me anew that I don't have a normal life to go back to - I quit my job and blew most of my savings - or even a house - it's all gone, minus a little 5x5 storage closet that's probably infested with spiders by now.<br />
<br />
At times this thought causes me to weep for hours while I listen to Dolly Parton sing "<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gBgpCiTE8IA" target="_blank">Eagle When She Flies</a>," but then I remind myself that I intentionally cut those ties for this very reason - because I predicted these days long before I ever came to Paris, and if I had made quitting a plausible option then I would have done it a hundred times over by now. It's as if a sort of <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0088763/" target="_blank">Marty McFly</a> or <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0096928/?ref_=fn_al_tt_1" target="_blank">Bill and Ted</a> saw future Kerry sitting on her sofa bed having a pity party and stuffing her face with leftover pastries, and they came back and warn me on that Father's Day Eve in June 2013 that if I paid for only one semester at a time or if I waited until I would have enough money to pay the tuition without selling my house, then I would have been on that plane with Leslie and ten years down the road still working as a data analyst and talking about how one day I'd finish that diploma. Of course, God is the one who was actually controlling every step, but He does provide moments of clarity and foresight.<br />
<br />
My only vision now of future Kerry extends only to about six months and it looks a lot like the last three months (and who knows for sure what will happen even tomorrow?). That said, I do actually look forward to the new semester being underway, not because I want to get it over with but because I'm ready to make changes and become a better student - ready to make it a more rewarding and less chaotic experience by the grace of God. And yes, there will still be plenty of chaos, but just starting out with that expectation and awareness puts me a little more at ease. Sometimes I even feel downright invigorated - 33% of the way finished!Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15818532587630238644noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7055176771372598926.post-23956619890124981662014-08-23T15:02:00.001-07:002014-09-08T03:51:37.900-07:00Basic Week Ten and FinalsAlthough this week was the shortest one as class hours go, it seemed like the longest and most arduous week yet. Even now after almost two days of free time I still feel on edge as if I'm supposed to be doing something - practicing marzipan roses or rolling dough or turning vegetables. Two months of living, breathing, and, of course, eating cuisine and pastry during most of my waking hours are hard to shake off, especially knowing that the coming week will simply be the calm before the next imminent storm.<br />
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<i><u>Monday</u></i></div>
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We had two last practicums, one each for pastry and cuisine, still remaining. Our morning began with making the Alhambra (chocolate cake) from Saturday's demonstration. Chef Olivier (a.k.a., Chef Debbie Downer) declared at the end of class that we all would have failed the exam - we finished late, our glazing was terrible, the decorations were dismal - but by this point most people didn't care because it wasn't included in our final exam recipe list. My rose, though slightly better than when I made the Dacquoise, still earned an eye-roll and "tsk, tsk, tsk" from Olivier.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUu-D1RZWHazyJVuszxLGu7j6cZXyGcdJovIyzVTUVp7QDkcHLeETu1ze_saeNj3GA4WJsH5G8fvjfKzlxqnG16F_4ZIwU7WxZ1zQoMNXgmWRC60JroOcLJAi2gvrSToOp7JcoclTl2A/s1600/MonAlhambra.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUu-D1RZWHazyJVuszxLGu7j6cZXyGcdJovIyzVTUVp7QDkcHLeETu1ze_saeNj3GA4WJsH5G8fvjfKzlxqnG16F_4ZIwU7WxZ1zQoMNXgmWRC60JroOcLJAi2gvrSToOp7JcoclTl2A/s1600/MonAlhambra.JPG" height="239" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ugly Alhambra (but it tasted good)</td></tr>
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At 12:30 Chef Strills led the demonstration on duck à l'orange accompanied by pike perch steak, ratatouille, waffle chips, and escargot in snail butter. It's only natural when one is taking courses in classical French cuisine that one should expect snails, and I had braced myself for this moment. It was actually quite tasty once I managed to put up the mental block on what I was chewing.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVChnFsfU5ylxr3fjGmSIQDkAt_ySxMSRt2GAFs0FY-P5LZ8VRPbV2zd-2TSDbX-X0n3sGz4JAYxXINiowLP5Rh-x_pok_5cPogK0fRtUEuC88f41TnTDpaQtgXWLDMkW98OEgLKqpdg/s1600/MonDemoDuck2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVChnFsfU5ylxr3fjGmSIQDkAt_ySxMSRt2GAFs0FY-P5LZ8VRPbV2zd-2TSDbX-X0n3sGz4JAYxXINiowLP5Rh-x_pok_5cPogK0fRtUEuC88f41TnTDpaQtgXWLDMkW98OEgLKqpdg/s1600/MonDemoDuck2.JPG" height="111" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Duck à l'orange; pike perch steak & ratatouille; escargot in pastry shells</td></tr>
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My main concern had been having to kill the snails myself in some style reminiscent of The Great Crab Massacre and/or pulling their slimy bodies out of the shells, but as it turns out, most snails are not prepared fresh even in fine restaurants. The process of preparing a snail for consumption requires starving the snail for three days until it salivates out... whatever makes it slimy. Several other steps follow, but most chefs obviously prefer to purchase the canned or flash-frozen ready-to-cook type. [<i>Another little piece of trivia: Hunting snails in France is illegal.</i>]</div>
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Because Chef Strills had temporarily come out of retirement to fill in for the month of August, we begged him to give us a quick "bonus" demonstration. We often hear stories from the chefs about certain traditional methods that are dying out with older chefs, and Strills had become a sort of legend for being the only person in the school who knew how to roll an omelet. It didn't look <i>that</i> complicated - just a quick tapping on the skillet handle for a second - but then again, nothing does until I try it myself.</div>
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We went straight from the demo to our practicum to make the duck à l'orange. It was one of the dishes on our final exam recipe list and had to be served with the gnocchi and cheese from the prior week's demonstration. Asian chef was with us for the last time before leaving for his career in a Paris restaurant (he mistakenly thought he was already done with us last week). I hoped that I could do one dish for him that wasn't a compete mess, but while everything turned out just okay, I was stunningly late having underestimated the cooking time for everything, a bad omen for Friday's exam.</div>
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<i><u>Tuesday</u></i></div>
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<br /></div>
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Tuesday contained only demonstrations in both pastry and cuisine. Because neither one would be in practicums or exams, the dishes were complex and classy, particularly in cuisine - a "gala" menu. Chef Vaca served up a rack of lamb with parsley crust, tiny carrots, turnips (dyed red with currants), stuffed tomatoes, and gratin potatoes. For dessert he made baked Alaska, cutting off the lights at the end to pour flaming liquor over the top, generating squeals of delight from everyone, especially the Asians. Class ended with cheap champagne served in paper cups. Gifting mine to a very happy classmate, I headed off to the pastry demo.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii4oHHjs-A6M_q715nQHzbnhaWrsA8VDopR3KXWT1ZDdzl77fHvwOMo1zHKWJRvW49MlcFEDE7TKyPmPYwr3OnoWO6kstCqS9Iq_UyXfaatGEAKsXxP-41MRC-RJzTI7CNDi_D8lInlQ/s1600/TueLamb.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii4oHHjs-A6M_q715nQHzbnhaWrsA8VDopR3KXWT1ZDdzl77fHvwOMo1zHKWJRvW49MlcFEDE7TKyPmPYwr3OnoWO6kstCqS9Iq_UyXfaatGEAKsXxP-41MRC-RJzTI7CNDi_D8lInlQ/s1600/TueLamb.JPG" height="83" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rack of lamb; carrots & turnips; baked Alaska</td></tr>
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Class started with the head of student services asking for a volunteer from my group (Group A) to switch pastry final exam times on Thursday from 8:30 to 3:30 in order to accommodate a student in Group C who had her <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0056262/" target="_blank">OFII</a> appointment. After an awkward moment of silence and the threat of a "volunteer" being randomly selected, I raised my hand. Instantly I regretted the decision - the later exam would cut into my cuisine final exam studies and I'd be working with a group with whom I was not familiar. While you can't talk to or help classmates during the exam, you can watch what other people are doing (at least in pastry where 50% of the group would be doing the same recipe). Our group had some of the better students, something that helps to pull up the "strugglers."</div>
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Chef Cotte proceeded to make a chocolate bergamot mousse cake with orange crisp. The cake had about 5 principal components - the sponge "biscuit," chocolate sabayon, bergamot mousse, chocolate ganache, and orange crisp - all delicious and delightful, although I began to get lost in the directions and eventually gave up taking notes. About half of the class was sleeping by this point and I was struggling a bit as well, but finally our last demo was over (again punctuated with champagne) and I headed home to hit the (recipe) books.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgA4bHwETWhuqqfGdYeGZ62cygfDszrLyGNzKpTNvoCWCEBeW1ejRQ_VFraljYiKgLZGKtzkR8ewk8bCFmo5PFL5XtyJ3xojVqK97cha9oIPTtvkKqMvjk3Tm3i7ktM9JKCobe9VdgmA/s1600/TueDemoBergamot.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgA4bHwETWhuqqfGdYeGZ62cygfDszrLyGNzKpTNvoCWCEBeW1ejRQ_VFraljYiKgLZGKtzkR8ewk8bCFmo5PFL5XtyJ3xojVqK97cha9oIPTtvkKqMvjk3Tm3i7ktM9JKCobe9VdgmA/s1600/TueDemoBergamot.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Chocolate bergamot mousse cakes with orange crisp</td></tr>
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<i><u>Wednesday</u></i></div>
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How to study for a practical exam was still somewhat of a mystery to me. We had a list of ten possible cuisine and pastry recipes from prior practicals that we could be doing in the exam, and on the exam day we would draw one of the recipes with only the ingredients and measurements, but no instructions. We had 2-1/2 hours to complete each exam, and for every minute over that time we would lose five points (out of a possible 100) from our grade. For pastry we would also have to make a sweet short pastry dough and line a 20 cm ring mold with it, and in cuisine we would be poaching one egg and hard-boiling and peeling another one as the technical part of the exam.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Almost every day for over a week I had been eating poached and hard-boiled eggs for breakfast and on Wednesday I successfully lined the ring mold, but practicing all twenty recipes from home was impossible - I have no oven and only a two-top burner, and my counter space is just big enough to fit a large dinner plate. While it's true that I probably could have "borrowed" a classmate's kitchen, the cost of doing these dishes just for practice would be phenomenal (although several students did just that). Instead I went with the "think" system - imagining myself making the food (fans of <i><a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0056262/" target="_blank">The Music Man</a></i> will understand) - and typed out all of the steps into a Word document.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
It was a beautiful and cool day in Paris and I thought of a couple new items that might come in handy for exams, but primarily I needed an elbow spatula because someone had stolen mine last week. I took a break and walked to <a href="http://eshop.e-dehillerin.fr/" target="_blank">Dehillerin</a>, thinking that the exercise would do some good. Then I walked really quickly because halfway there I remembered that they closed between 12:30 to 3:00. I forgot my student badge that would secure a 10% discount, but the owner remembered me from a little over a week ago ("You're coming every day now?") and he was in a hurry to get rid of me because I arrived at 12:20. From there I visited <a href="http://www.tati.fr/" target="_blank">Tati</a> and finally bought a blanket - temperatures were already dipping down to 48 degrees at night.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJW10atdqVeWuOZKLSY_2e3nR45lv25qowh1ACT9-wejXe0_YkFBclP4gUFCxXM84_UtkWuMW_l4jis_5nMT9mugArlSBu_E7TZUTRo5KzDv6NdngqW9E6gRrNjlwsCCTD9UvTHwthzQ/s1600/WedDehillerin.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJW10atdqVeWuOZKLSY_2e3nR45lv25qowh1ACT9-wejXe0_YkFBclP4gUFCxXM84_UtkWuMW_l4jis_5nMT9mugArlSBu_E7TZUTRo5KzDv6NdngqW9E6gRrNjlwsCCTD9UvTHwthzQ/s1600/WedDehillerin.JPG" height="298" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Too pretty a day to stay indoors</td></tr>
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<i><u>Thursday</u></i></div>
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Because I spent most of my time on Wednesday studying for pastry, I was determined to concentrate on cuisine even though the pastry exam was at 3:30. My resolve quickly dissolved as the exam time grew closer, though, and soon I was going through the recipes one last time. M.J., who was in my original group (A) and already took the exam that morning, texted to say that half the group made Saint-Honoré and the other half made apple turnovers and palms with Chef Tranchant. When I arrived at school, Nancy (one of the Americans in Group B) was just leaving her exam and said that they made the Dacquoise and Éclairs, also with Tranchant.<br />
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Fear gripped me - six recipes remained and the dreaded Moka (the one that I threw down the stairs) was among them. But Chef Tranchant was my favorite pastry chef to work with - he at least had a calming presence as opposed to Cotte who yelled a lot or Olivier who was always telling us that we would have failed "if this were the final exam." Outside the doors of the kitchen I joined Group C as the only non-Chinese student. Olivier, not Tranchant, emerged and my heart sank a little more. He had fourteen chips in an envelope, seven yellow and seven green. Students who drew a green chip would be doing Mogador (the chocolate raspberry mousse cake), and the yellow chips would get Moka. I reached in and drew out... a green chip. A huge wave of relief swept over me.<br />
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Things started smoothly - I was well ahead of the six other students working on the Mogador and the first person to put my cake in the oven. When it came time to do the mousse, though, I had a brain freeze. I knew that I needed to whisk hot syrup into my egg yolks, whip some cream, and melt some chocolate, but couldn't remember the method for combining these three elements and nobody else had even started her mousse. I decided to go with mixing the yolks into the cream and then mixing all of that into the chocolate, but the chocolate began clumping, making the mousse look more like cookies-and-cream than a smooth chocolate. From my peripheral vision I could see Olivier staring at my mixing bowl with disapproval.<br />
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Having done all that I could do and not wanting to lose more time, I spread the speckled mousse on my cake and stuck it in the freezer, tossing the leftover mousse in the garbage. Cleaning off my utensils I sliced my thumb with the cursed serrated knife, my first injury ever in pastry class. Chef bandaged it up and I commenced with my sweet short pastry.<br />
<br />
The dough came together well and I successfully lined the mold, but as I started on my weakest skill - crimping the edge - under the chef's ever watchful eye (I had the disadvantage of being stationed at the end of the counter right next to where he was observing), he suddenly called for the entire class to stop what they were doing and join us at the end of the counter. In what must have been an unprecedented move - chefs aren't technically supposed to give help or instructions during exams - chef pressed out my sad pastry rim and demonstrated proper crimping to the whole class, then handed it back to me with a smirk and a side-eye. I finished the rim, thinking that I probably need to consider reading glasses to go with my contacts.<br />
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I was still well within the time limits and ready to finish my cake when I noticed the other Mogador students filling pastry bags with chocolate mousse. That's when I remembered that we were supposed to reserve some for decorating the finished cake. Oops. For the briefest moment when chef wasn't looking I considered trying to retrieve the mousse from the garbage, then I thought that maybe I could borrow some extra mousse from another student, but that might be considered cheating. Instead I simply spread the raspberry jam over the top and placed it and my pastry mold on the presentation rack saying, "Chef, I'm ready." He looked at my cake and raised an eyebrow as if to say, "Are you sure?" but I shrugged and said, "I threw away the mousse." He shrugged back, punched something on his tablet, and said, "You passed. You can go." Two firsts then occurred: I was the first person to leave the kitchen and I felt a special warmth for Chef Olivier. A stab of pity went through me as I passed the frantic Moka students on my way out the door.<br />
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Back at the studio I recommenced the "think" system with my cuisine recipes. The exam was scheduled for 8:30 AM and fearing that I would sleep through my alarm for the first time, I set three of them at five-minute intervals. Sleep didn't come easily - I laid in bed rehashing in my mind cooking times and oven temperatures mostly.<br />
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<i><u>Friday</u></i><br />
<br />
The first alarm was enough to get me out of bed. By 8:10 AM I was in my uniform and waiting by the classroom door, reviewing the recipe notes one last time. Unlike in pastry, every cuisine student would be doing a different recipe than the other students, drawing them in a lottery fashion as we entered the room. Although I didn't particularly want any of the recipes, I <i>really </i>didn't want the roast duckling or either of the two fish recipes. The duck was a pain to clean and I am still terrible at filleting fish. My first pull was beef stroganoff, the one demonstration and practical that I had missed for the OFII appointment, but thankfully the student services lady in charge of the "lottery" remembered my dilemma and allowed me to draw another one - sea bream fillets with fennel and a fish stock sauce.<br />
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Although I was disappointed, I breathed a little prayer of thanks that I had purchased a fish scaler and fish bone tweezers only a few days earlier, because it was the one fish that was served in the skin and that needed the pin bones removed. When I was finally ready to fillet the fish I couldn't find the fillet knife that I had set on the counter. Seeing one on my far left next to the girl working beside me, I picked it up and said, "This is my knife, correct?" She replied, "No, it's mine," and took it from me, setting it back on the counter. Confused and starting to panic, I noticed the faint trace of white paint on the handle where I had once attempted to label it before it washed off. Under less strenuous circumstances I would have been more diplomatic, but I grabbed the knife saying, "No, it's mine! You're not even working on a fish!" (she was, in fact, trussing a chicken). I lost about a 40 minutes just on the fish preparation - about 20 minutes too many.<br />
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The advantage to cuisine is that it doesn't need as much precision as pastry - measurements are generally subjective as is the order in which one does the various steps. The disadvantage is that every recipe has multiple steps (e.g., clean the fish, fillet it, rinse the bones, chop and sweat the vegetables, sweat the fish, make the stock, julienne the fennel, cook the fennel, peel, seed, dice, and cook the tomatoes, chop the herbs, make the sauce), and order <i>does</i> make a difference in a time crunch. Throw in the preparation of the two eggs on top of everything and my old brain starts to melt. Although I didn't have lulls in time in which I had nothing to do, I knew that I was behind, especially when the chefs started yelling the time and I could see other students preparing their platters. Some students had already left and the judges, made up of three chefs who do not teach at the school, were gathering in the room.<br />
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I began throwing everything together, noticing that my fish was overcooked, my chopped dill was still in the bowl and not mixed in with the fennel, and my sauce had become too runny (it was just the right consistency for once until I remembered to add the Pastis right at the end). Because the fennel was already sandwiched between the fish fillets, I discreetly lifted the "lids" and sprinkled the dill on top of the fennel, trying to mix it in with my finger. Even with my platter finished, the clock didn't stop until my workstation was cleared away and cleaned. I knew that I was already late although I didn't notice the exact time that we started, but not wanting to waste more time I threw all of my dirty utensils into my knife kit and mesh bag, wiped down the oven and counter, and ran out, the second-to-last student to leave. Only later did it strike me that I had left my recipe and magnet still stuck to the workstation and that I had forgotten to turn off the oven and possibly all four burners.<br />
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Basic cuisine and pastry were officially over and we had to empty our lockers. Hauling back to the studio my knife kit, mesh bag, dirty uniform bag, and shoes, I threw my jacket over the top of my purse, too sweaty to put it on even though the air was still quite cool. A few hours later after I had washed all of uniforms and dirty utensils and began to organize everything, the thought struck me that I didn't remember putting away my jacket when I got home. Much to my dismay I realized that it had escaped from me somewhere between the school and the studio. A quick search of the apartment stairs, courtyard, and down to the end of the block turned up nothing.<br />
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Some of the pastry students had planned a little get-together at 8:00 PM down by the Seine because a few of them would not be returning next semester for Intermediate. The last thing that I felt like doing was making myself presentable and leaving the apartment again, but I agreed to make a cameo appearance just to say my good-byes. I arrived fashionably late by American standards - 8:17 - and nobody was there. Worried that I had the wrong place, I texted one of the girls, the organizer, at 8:20 asking if she was already there and she replied, "On my way."<br />
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After a few more minutes, I walked up on the beautiful Alexendre III bridge to enjoy the view. Much to my surprise and joy, a double rainbow that hadn't been visible from the lower level was painted across the sky. Paris often gets rain even when it's sunny, and I will search the skies for a rainbow during these times but the buildings are too tall and close together to see anything. The large, open area of grass-lined walkways leading to the bridge made a perfect location, though. Soon small drops of rain began to fall and the wind picked up. I had on long sleeves but temperatures were in the low 60's and my jacket was long gone so I finally decided to call it a day with or without the final farewells.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSzFJSZqlDz9W_18i8cvQ84_ttjOkQnDmjBI6VDxtoXFDSs-u3_Q3ZLTebHNdR-tbNTsxGl2rvtdWN6KRTLUX_FqolHWTQlBvZdhGmb6KSv2ccECs3rZEJZaKu442PxwGIxvTp_9QcUg/s1600/FriSeine+(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSzFJSZqlDz9W_18i8cvQ84_ttjOkQnDmjBI6VDxtoXFDSs-u3_Q3ZLTebHNdR-tbNTsxGl2rvtdWN6KRTLUX_FqolHWTQlBvZdhGmb6KSv2ccECs3rZEJZaKu442PxwGIxvTp_9QcUg/s1600/FriSeine+(2).JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Double rainbow atop Air France</td></tr>
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<br />
The coming few days are something that I have looked forward to since before I even arrived in Paris - my friend is coming to visit me! For all of my Paris trash-talk, I'm greatly anticipating introducing this beautiful and unique city to someone for the first time in addition to finally doing the "touristy things" - going inside the Eiffel Tower and Notre Dame, visiting a museum or two, braving restaurants, and maybe hitting a few cities on the outskirts of Paris. Whatever we decide to do, though, just catching up with her should be the highlight of the week.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15818532587630238644noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7055176771372598926.post-22674490354934853422014-08-17T14:14:00.001-07:002014-09-08T03:51:58.264-07:00Basic Week NineSummer officially has about one month left, but all of the back-to-school hubbub on top of the mildly cool Paris weather makes it seem over. Speaking of back-to-school, two things that you won't find in any section of school supplies in French stores are college-ruled notebook paper and pencils. Instead, students take their notes on something akin to graph paper (because who doesn't want vertical lines running through all of their writing?) and use only pens (pencil is hard to read, particularly on graph paper, and they provide students an excuse to make errors).<br />
<br />
Anyhow, this winding down of summer leaves me feeling a bit nostalgic or like something important has passed me by, and at times I even find myself in tears while browsing through such sites as Facebook. Don't misunderstand me - I love seeing the photos of everyone's summer fun, but they do make me get a little lump in my throat. It's ironic because I hate to be hot and sweaty and I spend most summers greatly anticipating the fall, but I've always loved living in a city that has four seasons. One often appreciates simple pleasures only when they are no longer available, such as:<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>Cookouts. Outdoor grilling is forbidden in France, remember? Hamburgers, hot dogs, s'mores, potato salad, coleslaw, watermelon, chips, sweet tea, lemonade - they're all better when eaten outside while sitting on a lawn chair and trying to balance a flimsy paper plate and Dixie cup on your knees as you shoo away the flies. Better yet is the time spent just idly chatting in the shade as you watch the kids, admirably resilient to the heat and humidity, endlessly playing until the sun goes down and the fireflies light up the night to a chorus of crickets, cicadas, and bullfrogs. [Which reminds me: After I previously bemoaned the lack of fireflies here, a friend sent me a video of her yard at night with the fireflies and evening "songs," and I watched it probably a dozen times. As I showed it to a British girl at school who had never heard of fireflies, she asked, "What's all that noise? How do you sleep through that?" I could only answer with, "How do <i>you </i>sleep without it?"]</li>
<li>Pools, lakes, beaches, and water parks. I may not love to swim but nothing beats the smell of coconut sunscreen lotion or the feeling of plunging into cool water just as you feel your body reach its melting point. <a href="http://www.coolrivertubing.com/" target="_blank">Tubing lazily through Helen, Georgia</a>, taking long rides on a pontoon boat, watching the nieces and nephews doing underwater handstands, cannonballs, Marco-Polo, and all of the stuff that you enjoyed as a kid, catching that first salty, fishy whiff in the air as you approach the beach, being mesmerized by your feet sinking deep into the sand as the ocean waves lap around your legs, and taking the best nap ever after your post-swim shower in a room cooled by a glorious invention known as "air conditioning" - these are a few of my favorite things.</li>
<li>Baseball. True, I spend maybe 10% of my time watching the game (if it's a really good one) and the rest of my time chatting with friends or buying the obligatory hot dog and ice cream in a baseball cap bowl (or in more recent years it was <a href="http://www.chick-fil-a.com/" target="_blank">Chick-fil-A</a> Ice Dream in a cup with chocolate syrup), but I would always snap to attention for "The Star-Spangled Banner," "Sweet Caroline," and, of course, "Y-M-C-A." Staying until the end of a game was the exception, not the rule, because who goes for the game?</li>
<li>Family vacation. Every summer of my life included at least one big trip either with family or to see family, and most often it included both. Sure, eight to twenty-four hours straight in a car or a week in a hotel or cabin with your loved ones can have its challenges, but I wouldn't trade the memories that each of those times brings for anything.</li>
</ul>
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<div>
<u><i>Monday</i></u></div>
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<div>
My second "opportunity" as a basic cuisine class assistant was this week. My first week we had only two practicums, but this week we had five, with four of them being at 8:30 in the morning. Being an assistant isn't rocket science, but it does require that you come to class 20 minutes early to make sure that all of the ingredients are ready, running out of class if something is missing or runs out, and staying afterwards to make sure that the room is clean and the leftovers are put away. Not a big deal, of course, because I'm always the last one out anyhow, but those interruptions tend to make me... last-er.<br />
<br />
We began our week bright and early Monday morning in a cuisine practicum with a substitute chef, Chef Strill, who had recently retired after 12 years of teaching at <a href="http://www.cordonbleu.edu/lcb-paris/en" target="_blank">Le Cordon Bleu</a> but who was willing to step in for the many other chefs still on vacation. He was the gentlest, sweetest, most patient chef that we had to date, and I instantly liked him and regretted that we'd have him for only a short period of time. What I haven't figured out is if I do better with chefs that I like more, or if I like chefs more when I do better; nonetheless my pork medallions, mustard sauce, and pommes Dauphines all turned out well - for once my meat was cooked just right (although leaving pork with pink in it went against everything that I had ever learned).<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9m3lfbwj8dV1zFcKGtnCQLrEv7Bg9K7cfsqLOjpdmB_WG3-uzPL7iXU0Io9gskh5pfhNb23ROU_whusMTwFUnxd_ZOzFvoa9g0bwqlvIDysvzjsYTXrd07AZdjS3oT0fTGRvTkuQ0Vw/s1600/MonPork_Prac+(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9m3lfbwj8dV1zFcKGtnCQLrEv7Bg9K7cfsqLOjpdmB_WG3-uzPL7iXU0Io9gskh5pfhNb23ROU_whusMTwFUnxd_ZOzFvoa9g0bwqlvIDysvzjsYTXrd07AZdjS3oT0fTGRvTkuQ0Vw/s1600/MonPork_Prac+(2).JPG" height="265" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Slightly pink pork, pommes Dauphine, and mustard sauce</td></tr>
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That afternoon Chef Strill led the demonstration on cutting and sautéeing chicken, making homemade gnocchi, and poaching fruit. Perhaps it's because the only "vegetables" that we ever make seem to be potatoes, but the side of Italian-style vegetables containing zucchini, eggplant, red peppers, and onions was probably my favorite dish that we've made so far. Now if they could just discover broccoli...<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEge7MH9WqkbZMO2xQtvW_G1laHpvD_pL07HFiOC7EDpmhW0z9OaqOr7fnM-E0hEyRBZYTm7JjiczUZic51Wxm_XqcE5IS3R_lAV81JE8d2agSzCRx0Upvid7lOzhfk1teNRPSgPPLUj4w/s1600/MonCutChicken_Demo1+(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEge7MH9WqkbZMO2xQtvW_G1laHpvD_pL07HFiOC7EDpmhW0z9OaqOr7fnM-E0hEyRBZYTm7JjiczUZic51Wxm_XqcE5IS3R_lAV81JE8d2agSzCRx0Upvid7lOzhfk1teNRPSgPPLUj4w/s1600/MonCutChicken_Demo1+(2).JPG" height="106" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sautéed tarragon chicken with Italian-style vegetables;<br />
gnocchi; Italian meringue with poached fruit</td></tr>
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Because I was free after 3:30 and I would be in classes from 8:30 AM until 9:30 PM for the next two days, I took the rest of the afternoon to do a little necessary shopping up in the ninth arrondissement. While there I passed a store that caught my eye, <a href="http://www.maisondumiel.com/" target="_blank">Maison du Miel</a> ("House of Honey"). Any store with pretty little jars lining every shelf and display window will catch my eye. Several months ago I listened to my mom and aunts talk about their favorite types of honey (e.g., clover vs. orange blossom), but up to that point I thought that all honeys were created equal, or at least tasted the same. Boy, was I wrong - one taste of the lavender honey and I wasn't sure that I could ever go back to old grocery store versions again. To top it off, the very friendly cashier gave me a piece of honey candy as I checked out - a hard outside that dissolved into a soft, sweet center. Oh, la la!<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHipd6DoxvkHgEckvKMqQBh6ZOGn0jbxpoELrO4w9ygVcv07T5Z3l-F3I0OXyhRHVPBdkQje-1jUUh3_CxdzOgs0PSLpmXc-LrSiyUYz9j0_NFoEhOjFLs0REEe3BEuMpOhC0qAOPwOw/s1600/photo.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHipd6DoxvkHgEckvKMqQBh6ZOGn0jbxpoELrO4w9ygVcv07T5Z3l-F3I0OXyhRHVPBdkQje-1jUUh3_CxdzOgs0PSLpmXc-LrSiyUYz9j0_NFoEhOjFLs0REEe3BEuMpOhC0qAOPwOw/s1600/photo.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lavender honey, just perfect atop leftover brioche</td></tr>
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<i><u>Tuesday</u></i><br />
<br />
The day began with Chef Strill again in the cuisine practicum. My tarragon chicken needed to be a little crispier and the Italian vegetables were okay, but I was back to the old problem of a poorly reduced sauce. Being the nice man that he was, Strill just smiled and said, "But not too bad!" Our basic cuisine written exam was at 12:30 so I used my lunch hour to eat some of the not-too-bad meal while I studied.<br />
<br />
This exam felt a little easier than the pastry written exam, although I still found myself scratching my head on several questions such as "With what meat would you associate a Bordelaise sauce?" I can't complain about the written tests, though, because they are translated in both French and English which means that they have to be a million times harder for the Asian students and other nationalities. Even with my French language background I'm not sure that I could have succeeded if the tests had been only in French.<br />
<br />
Chef Vaca led the 3:30 demonstration on hot fish terrine, scrambled eggs, and Bavarian cream. While terrines are growing on me, fish terrines are still somewhat repulsive. What sane person would come up with the idea of making a mousse out of fish? Except for the dessert, this demonstration was probably the least appetizing (although I did come away with some good egg-scrambling techniques).<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnX6TgaBvnUedPc4CiLbxUZGW6rBQwE4ekoDg7FvKVeHfR6vay54jTPbAixJb5dZoZ8LloYnqILocseXn7NW2T3TsyOVISyLuBv5CuvIUm4dlvoF12qoUtq2RuOfrJWRNM0xW4mm8bIQ/s1600/TueFishTerrine_Demo+(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnX6TgaBvnUedPc4CiLbxUZGW6rBQwE4ekoDg7FvKVeHfR6vay54jTPbAixJb5dZoZ8LloYnqILocseXn7NW2T3TsyOVISyLuBv5CuvIUm4dlvoF12qoUtq2RuOfrJWRNM0xW4mm8bIQ/s1600/TueFishTerrine_Demo+(2).JPG" height="91" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hot fish terrine; Scrambled eggs & smoked salmon; Bavarian cream</td></tr>
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That evening we made the Pithiviers (Three Kings' Cake) and Sacristains (twists made from leftover puff pastry dough) from Friday's demonstration. Puff pastries are not particularly difficult, but they do require that the dough and butter stay at just the right temperature of coolness. At home this wouldn't be a problem - one could make the dough and do a turn or two, chill it for a few hours, come back and do another turn or two, chill it again for a couple of hours or overnight, and then roll out the pastry. In the span of a class period, though, where your pastry has to be in the oven within an hour and you're working in a warm kitchen, it's almost impossible. Somehow everyone's cake turned out okay, though, and Chef Tranchant seemed pleased overall.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ5aTVXwNxFUxVn4LpX2zFX9fn0SEdv2MxPCkG_Xn636EPc9oGUlcWhZfGoKzW6U7jLKQLohC_aIYke2Xog9L7L35dBRj6R6YS2BnftLdX6ObxQvLF7ZqaMy_JWR7D2VqDDXGJIL3SYw/s1600/TuesPuffPastry3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ5aTVXwNxFUxVn4LpX2zFX9fn0SEdv2MxPCkG_Xn636EPc9oGUlcWhZfGoKzW6U7jLKQLohC_aIYke2Xog9L7L35dBRj6R6YS2BnftLdX6ObxQvLF7ZqaMy_JWR7D2VqDDXGJIL3SYw/s1600/TuesPuffPastry3.jpg" height="226" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Chef Tranchant insists that our final products be put in a straight line;<br />
my Pithiviers and Sacristains</td></tr>
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<br />
<i><u>Wednesday</u></i><br />
<br />
Morning came too soon, and it was definitely too early in the day to be making fish terrines. The practicum seemed like it would be easy because it was our only dish (aside from the accompanying sauce). The Istanbul chef showed up, though, and I went into automatic "uh-oh" mode. He's a yeller, but unlike Chef Cotte he's not the makes-you-laugh kind of yeller because he never cracks a smile. His face is perpetually a dark shade of red that makes him appear constantly angry (although it does tend to go purple when he gets really mad), and his eyes are deeply bloodshot, like his whole head is about to explode. I can't say that I'm sorry that he'll be with us for only a month.<br />
<br />
Because I took care of sending up the food from the basement, the other class assistant took over the job of dividing the spinach leaves for lining the terrine into seven bowls, which would have been fine... except that we had eight students. I only discovered the mistake because I was the eighth person to reach the point where we needed the spinach. Feeling bad about his error, the assistant grabbed a bowl and walked around the counter, grabbing spinach from everyone else's bowls despite some protests (practicums can bring out a lot of possessiveness). Still, my bowl ended up containing just a pithy amount of spinach and few leaves large enough to line a mold well.<br />
<br />
Chef was actually understanding about the lack of spinach and told me to continue on with what I had. For one rare moment we even had some downtime in our cuisine class as we waited for our terrines to finish baking and the atmosphere was almost relaxed. I finished my sauce, got my plate warmed and cleaned, organized my tools to be able to plate immediately, and waited, happy not to be rushing for once. Finally students began removing their terrines from their ovens and molds for the final presentation. Mine was the last to finish but I tested it for doneness and all seemed well... until I flipped it out of the mold.<br />
<br />
The contents of the mold splayed across my cutting board, a mound of mushy white fish mousse with the two strips of salmon jiggling sadly on top. I considered trying to plate it anyhow, perhaps make my own genius invention and call it "hot fish pudding," but gave up the idea after about one second of contemplation. Chef was evaluating another plate and had not yet noticed me although the other students were saying helpful things like, "Oh, no!" and "What did you do?" One girl whose plate had already been evaluated did whisper, "Would you like to use my terrine? He's going to fail you!" I was touched by the gesture although it felt slightly unethical so I turned her down (not that I didn't consider it for a second, although I wasn't sure how I would hide the hideous mass covering my cutting board). I put my hot, clean plate back in the cabinet and said, "Um, Chef? I'm ready."<br />
<br />
Istanbul chef was pretty calm about the whole thing and still tasted it and my sauce. He decided that the problem was probably that I hadn't used enough egg whites. He ended the class congratulating everyone on successful terrines ("... with the exception of one," pointing in my direction) and dropping the warning to "respect the recipe." Normally that rule applies only to pastry - using exact measurements and ingredients - but this dish was an exception in cuisine. Except that I <i>had </i>respected the recipe, measuring out the whites to the exact milliliter. Often I have the problem of respecting the recipe too much in cuisine (I feel like there's a <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rodney_Dangerfield" target="_blank">Rodney Dangerfield</a> punchline in here somewhere).<br />
<br />
The other class assistant had put away the leftover food in the basement kitchen after class for the past couple of days because he always finished first, but Istanbul chef wouldn't let anyone leave the class early; therefore, I volunteered to put the food away. The usual basement kitchen chef, the Filipino one, directed me just to set the bowl of fish and salmon in the fridge when I asked what to do with it. Walking into the fridge, I unloaded the butter, egg whites, fish, and leftover herbs like we always do and turned to leave when Chef Bogen walked in (the chef who lectured me on dish rags and how to properly store my knife). He began frenetically grabbing and dropping items on the shelf saying, "You need to organize this, wrap the herbs properly, and clean, wrap and label the fish. Just because you didn't make the mess doesn't mean you should ignore it." I was at a loss for words for a moment, not realizing that there was a mess to begin with - it looked exactly like it always did.<br />
<br />
I brought the fish and herbs out, uncertain of what I should do with them. He grabbed some parsley, shaking it in my face and saying, "See? You wrap the top with the ends exposed and put them in the water." Simple enough. I then looked for a place to wrap fish that wasn't in the way of the people preparing lunch for the staff. Finally finding an empty counter, I pulled out some plastic wrap before Bogen popped back in, saying, "Move - I'm working in that space." Carrying the fish around on the cling wrap I wandered awkwardly around the kitchen, looking for another open space that wasn't occupied by people preparing lunch for the staff. My final location was atop a cardboard box, or rather inside the box because it didn't have a lid. Having succeeded in wrapping the fish and herbs properly, I walked back into the fridge and studied the shelves, trying once again to guess what Bogen wanted me to do. Finally I arranged all of the blocks of butter and bottles of egg whites into perfectly neat and stacked rows that would be decimated before the 12:30 practicums began and snuck out of the basement, avoiding running into Bogen again after having broken some record for the longest class assistant post-practicum duty ever.<br />
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Disgruntled, I spent my lunch hour reading rather than eating (my fish terrine was in the trash) before heading to Chef Vaca's demonstration on filleting and sautéeing sea bream, braising guinea fowl, and deep-frying puff pastry (yes, please!). He made the guinea fowl into some sort of wonderful concoction layered with sausage, "bacon," carrots, onions, and cabbage - nice comfort food after a rough morning.</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="font-style: normal; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDMSu1CUfibUpPWnMbo7NmYTdeRX4EZWCOlNUiOAJXb7uqECMh0olH-ULoJ8FCKL_3QKvnEYHOOUKRMqvKjGvE0LkfTmPg0LWRBspiq9iOHC8bdqZUg4kh3m3BOM19838XyMxYpQHBLw/s1600/WedRoundFish_Demo5+(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDMSu1CUfibUpPWnMbo7NmYTdeRX4EZWCOlNUiOAJXb7uqECMh0olH-ULoJ8FCKL_3QKvnEYHOOUKRMqvKjGvE0LkfTmPg0LWRBspiq9iOHC8bdqZUg4kh3m3BOM19838XyMxYpQHBLw/s1600/WedRoundFish_Demo5+(2).JPG" height="91" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sea bream fillets with fennel; guinea fowl; deep-fried pear puffs</td></tr>
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The pastry demonstration afterwards was with Chef Tranchant. He made bûche pistache-chocolat, a Christmas "log" pistachio sponge cake with layers of chocolate ganache and a hard chocolate coating, followed by a Genoa cake, an almond sponge cake covered in almonds (what else?) and powdered sugar for a sort of Christmas in August feel.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdotE6qr9UWMQQHjZiB3dWXjcnZii0KV2frXU4xhXXG-B13qmAIFg4hnYCVXsiDIW-6heE88pzhC4H-SY0nAy2szE3CC8eqc3lcGzP2aPnzdLxEdYW3IAu8Oyy1NDQM-XGUSQge09Jzw/s1600/WedBuche_Demo2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdotE6qr9UWMQQHjZiB3dWXjcnZii0KV2frXU4xhXXG-B13qmAIFg4hnYCVXsiDIW-6heE88pzhC4H-SY0nAy2szE3CC8eqc3lcGzP2aPnzdLxEdYW3IAu8Oyy1NDQM-XGUSQge09Jzw/s1600/WedBuche_Demo2.jpg" height="207" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bûches; Genoa cakes</td></tr>
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Practicum with Tranchant followed immediately afterwards and our only assignment was to make the bûche. Still on a roll from the morning's cuisine practicum, I somehow lost "respect" for this recipe and ended up running out of ganache for my cake layers, and I still needed some extra reserved for the decorations (I suspect that I accidentally used the measurements for the imbibing syrup which were less than half those of the ganache). It didn't seem like a big deal, though - I would just have thin layers and I could borrow some ganache for the decorations from students who had used the correct measurements. I carefully slid a couple of spatulas under my log to take it to the chocolate coating station set up in the middle of the counter... and promptly dropped it on the floor.</div>
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I let out a sort of scream that caused several students to jump and Tranchant to raise an eyebrow. Miraculously my cake appeared undamaged (we had them in the freezer prior to coating to firm them up), so after a moment of reflection (my internal conversation went something like this: "Am I supposed to throw it out? Trim some edges? Start over? I can't lose another recipe today... not on my watch!") I reached down, picked it up off of the floor, and continued to the chocolate station (oh, yes I did!). It looked perfect with the smooth coating covering it, so once again using my two spatulas, I carefully picked it up off of the wire rack and swiveled to place it on the presentation board.</div>
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<div style="font-style: normal; margin: 0px;">
Poor Yin-Li. She had a long day as well and had the misfortune of being situated next to the very busy chocolate station, so I couldn't get mad when she simultaneously backed up into me, knocking my cake off of the spatulas and top-side down onto the counter. I managed not to scream this time and soon a couple of other girls were helping me get the cake back onto the coating rack to add some additional coverage before Chef Tranchant noticed. Meanwhile, Yin-Li was apologizing profusely and awkwardly flailing her arms in an attempt to help me as I tried to reassure that it was okay.</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="font-style: normal; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWPYkpv54chPBbMMMLakTh9Ihf30C2DlTI6xwVcojEUc-O5uGbfjPuHCA_-j3mpj_UdC5Fvm5yNX3TlnAqCP7E3Yvz7mlzCIdZvCblPrEm9VCdQcpN4IriIaZi6Z2x6zgpr4SOWeg-Ew/s1600/WedBuche_Prac2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWPYkpv54chPBbMMMLakTh9Ihf30C2DlTI6xwVcojEUc-O5uGbfjPuHCA_-j3mpj_UdC5Fvm5yNX3TlnAqCP7E3Yvz7mlzCIdZvCblPrEm9VCdQcpN4IriIaZi6Z2x6zgpr4SOWeg-Ew/s1600/WedBuche_Prac2.jpg" height="318" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Working to get all of our bûches in a row; my (slightly soiled) bûche</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<div style="font-style: normal; margin: 0px;">
And it was - my cake looked and tasted decent in the end (yes, I ate it after it fell on the floor. Don't judge - see previous posts about lowered hygiene standards). I'll probably never know how Tranchant evaluated me unless they give us a breakdown of our final grade, but I actually found the class quite enjoyable. We have a good camaraderie in our group, and although Tranchant can be hard to read, I like him a lot and, as it turns out, he has a sense of humor.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWbSnFHuIbqiM_ezY9qT9g9WWyOXcZDXEJCZTGUPsdhu4U6C3-8kbEIWNMfHaeNIwWOqspA_PDjBqeEV_lEQuBdirJfbMbZWEYx85Ub1qWNw1ghFw02GCzjEM2Raj57DBWxpNqCtrGag/s1600/20140813_201936_resized_1+(2).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWbSnFHuIbqiM_ezY9qT9g9WWyOXcZDXEJCZTGUPsdhu4U6C3-8kbEIWNMfHaeNIwWOqspA_PDjBqeEV_lEQuBdirJfbMbZWEYx85Ub1qWNw1ghFw02GCzjEM2Raj57DBWxpNqCtrGag/s1600/20140813_201936_resized_1+(2).jpg" height="143" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jade, M.J., Tranchant, and me; Tranchant decided to switch roles</td></tr>
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<i><u>Thursday</u></i></div>
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The female Korean chef was in charge of our fourth 8:30 AM cuisine practicum that week. I went into class feeling good about this one because I had typed up and reviewed all of my directions the night before and printed them out at school that morning. It turned out to be an effort in futility, but at least it revealed that my cuisine struggles aren't simply a result of disorganization. It wasn't the worst practicum ever (and a far cry from the day before), but I still finished last, my fish was overcooked, and my sauce had too much cream (at least my fennel was done well).</div>
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<div style="font-style: normal; margin: 0px;">
Packing up my stuff after class I tapped my pocket to feel for my little flash drive that I had used to print out my recipe. The patting became a little more frantic when I didn't find it and I realized that I must have left it in the USB port. Running down to the computer lab I blanched when I noticed that it was no longer in the computer, so I bee-lined downstairs to the receptionist desk to ask if anyone had turned it in. Nobody had.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin: 0px;">
As I began remembering everything that was on it a sick feeling grew in the pit of my stomach and my palms began to sweat - photocopies of my driver's license and passport, all of the registration documents and letters for the school, several years of tax returns, a list of my passwords to things such as email, bank, and credit card accounts, and photos - years and years of photos. I spent the rest of my lunch hour on the school's agonizingly slow computer, changing as many passwords as I could think of, starting with the most detrimental ones first.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">The time came to go to my last class of the day. I sat through Istanbul chef's demonstration on goat cheese and vinaigrette salad, wiener schnitzel, homemade pasta with tomato concassée, and chocolate and orange mousse, but I could hardly concentrate as my mind churned over everything else that might be on that flash drive. It wasn't backed up because it </span><i>was</i> my back up from the last computer that I got rid of. For a moment I thought that I was going to get physically sick and all that I wanted to do was run home to continue securing all of my online accounts.</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtHRQhmZpvp3v7QCZrjRSpKqix1jM55JjzNJKPEwerbkrnryRS_USulLDVK7QdOulxC1D1FI2lAr2ec_xLuFuUNTqAEkuBNwaNCnYxyF-UuuuvHKXn1dvK-v5MX2BNAsPwr9qF95XQ5A/s1600/ThuWiener_Demo+(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtHRQhmZpvp3v7QCZrjRSpKqix1jM55JjzNJKPEwerbkrnryRS_USulLDVK7QdOulxC1D1FI2lAr2ec_xLuFuUNTqAEkuBNwaNCnYxyF-UuuuvHKXn1dvK-v5MX2BNAsPwr9qF95XQ5A/s1600/ThuWiener_Demo+(2).JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Still had the presence of mind to take a photo: Wiener schitzel with pasta and<br />
tomato concassée, goat cheese salad, chocolate mousse, and orange salad</td></tr>
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That is exactly what I did as soon as class dismissed. It was, thankfully, the last class of the day, so after checking the computer lab and receptionist desk one last time, I ran home and spent the next two hours changing every password that I knew was on the flash drive and several that probably were not. I began to calm down a little when I finished and felt that nothing had been compromised yet, but I spent the rest of the evening mourning the loss of my photos and praying that somehow I could recover everything.</div>
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<i><u>Friday</u></i></div>
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Friday was a French bank holiday which meant that we had no classes. Because I stayed up so late the night before I slept in late and woke up surprisingly refreshed. A heavy and somewhat ominous feeling that comes with the knowledge that one's privacy has been totally violated still hung over my head, but I decided that worrying about it wasn't going to change anything. Instead I washed and ironed all of my uniforms and organized more recipes in preparation for final exams next week.</div>
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<i><u>Saturday</u></i></div>
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Upon arriving at school that morning I once again checked at the receptionist desk and in the computer lab, hoping that someone intended to turn it in for me but simply forgot, perhaps remembering when he or she changed clothes and checked the pockets. Nothing turned up and I headed to my pasty demonstration where Chef Tranchant made Alhambra for us, a chocolate cake with chocolate ganache layers and a chocolate coating. He used the leftover cake batter and ganache to make a tasty strawberry and raspberry concoction and we had our second lesson on decorative roses. I set a new personal goal for Monday's practicum to 1) master the marzipan rose and 2) keep my cake off of the ground.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNZCpWJMbkhojz48f6Xa3Ts7MX2t8k-8r8qkMLa9kevBRCdrY_aEORl49CT5hqrXqfuX0Ybc6OfwhCf_SDdZo31FmMwF2zyXHfPbXQNI4EMJYNeS6kAj-iRDCTlQG6y3V0ur_k_uCcvQ/s1600/SatChocoCake_Demo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNZCpWJMbkhojz48f6Xa3Ts7MX2t8k-8r8qkMLa9kevBRCdrY_aEORl49CT5hqrXqfuX0Ybc6OfwhCf_SDdZo31FmMwF2zyXHfPbXQNI4EMJYNeS6kAj-iRDCTlQG6y3V0ur_k_uCcvQ/s1600/SatChocoCake_Demo.jpg" height="133" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Alhambra; Chef's own invention</td></tr>
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We rounded out the week with our fifth cuisine practicum, making the wiener schnitzel, pasta, and tomato concassée with Asian chef. It was our last time with him which was kind of sad, but he's moving on to become the head chef at a restaurant in Paris. It was also my last day as the class assistant, a responsibility that I was more than happy to give up. I loved this dish in theory but struggled with the pasta. We didn't use the pasta machine as we learned in the demonstration, but instead we rolled it and sliced it all out by hand. The concept was simple enough - just roll the dough very thin, roll the ends inward like a scroll, slice the "scroll," and unroll the pasta noodles... except that my noodles wouldn't unroll - they just remained stuck together, breaking off as I attempted to unravel them. Eventually I was painstakingly unrolling one noodle at a time until I had just enough to make one plate serving. I threw the rest of my dough in the trash. </div>
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The tomato concassée had too much tomato paste and the noodles were a bit of a mess, but one out of two of my veal chops turned out okay. Actually, I had it for a late lunch when I got home and thought that it was quite a tasty dish, technicalities aside.</div>
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<i><u>Sunday</u></i><br />
<br />
It was a day for reflection after church this morning (well, reflection and washing my bed linens because I didn't have time yesterday). The last full week of classes before exams this semester hit like a freight train. During some of the rougher patches (and even in the smoother ones) I found myself questioning whether I'm ready to hit repeat in a couple of weeks only at a more intense level - whether I'll even be able to handle the greater challenges ahead. Even if the final exams don't go well, the probability of passing in both Basic Cuisine and Basic Patisserie is fairly high... it's just that I had imagined the basic level being more of a sprint than a hobble/crawl across the finish line.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Cuisine especially is throwing me for a loop. Out of 28 practicals so far I can count on one hand how many times I left class feeling like I had done really well, and maybe two of those times felt like a slam dunk. I don't have enough hands to count how many big mistakes I've made, how many times I finished last, or how often I've watched a chef turn up his or her nose at almost everything on my plate. The start of each new practical finds me hopeful and excited but usually ends in frustration and confusion about what went wrong.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Ironically, though, I'm doing better grade-wise in cuisine than in pastry even though the latter feels a bit like recess. I made a 90% on the cuisine written exam and 79% on the pastry, and I learned this week that my fifth-placed mid-term ranking in cuisine wasn't relative to our group of eight but to the entire class of about 50 people. The news would have been exciting if it were based on my awesome culinary skills, but a lot of the weight comes from perfect attendance (or rather the imperfect attendance of students with better skills). I wanted my success to come from amazing performances, not from good behavior.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I justify this mindset by telling myself that if this is the field in which I will be earning a living for the rest of my life then I should be really good at it. While that's true, if I'm really honest with myself then I know that a bigger issue is my pride. Watching other students get high-fives or even hugs from the chefs and seeing beautiful plates done better than (and long before) mine can stir up some jealousy that's not consoled by thinking, "At least my grade is higher." It's a little painful and revealing to ask myself the question, "Why am I <i>really </i>disappointed with my progress?"<br />
<br />
Not surprisingly, my devotions this week happened into I Corinthians 10:31: "Whether therefore you eat or drink, or whatsoever you do, do all to the glory of God." That's been my problem - I'm getting frustrated because I've been working for my own glory. Just in the simple act of food preparation my motive has been, "Look at me!" rather than "Look at my God!"</div>
<div>
<br />
Switching that motivation doesn't mean that I'll suddenly become a better chef, but it does mean that my attitude over successes and failures will change. Maybe that's <i>why</i> I've not been able to do terribly well in the kitchen - God knows that success would only elevate my pride while failures force me to become more introspective and push me closer to Him, and maybe it is in that humbled position that I can have the best influence and testimony to the people around me.</div>
</div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15818532587630238644noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7055176771372598926.post-79220715051097840102014-08-11T13:59:00.001-07:002014-09-08T03:52:09.398-07:00Basic Week EightNot to be repetitive, but time is flying by here. When I first began my plans to come to <a href="http://www.cordonbleu.edu/lcb-paris/en" target="_blank">Le Cordon Bleu</a> a year in advance it seemed as if it would never really happen or that it would take half an eternity. When I did finally arrive in Paris I was so homesick and frustrated with Paris living that I wasn't sure that I would survive the ten days before classes began. Now heading into the ninth week of school with exams and advanced levels of classes looming ahead I feel as if I need to pull some sort of emergency brake just to freeze time for a bit and allow myself to breathe. That said, this week was relatively light and easy as workloads go...<br />
<i><u><br /></u></i>
<i><u>Monday</u></i><br />
<br />
Although we had Chef Jordan for a theory class before, it was the first time that he ever gave us a demonstration. Each chef seems to have his own quirk or focus, and it turned out that Jordan's is appearance. We've had the same uniform regulations since day one, but this was the first class in which they were strictly enforced. Jordan stood at the door with his arms folded, turning away students with wrinkles or stains on their jackets or hair not pulled back or missing neckerchiefs, telling them that they had five minutes to fix the problem.<br />
<br />
A lecture on orderliness and behavior ensued before the somber-faced Chef Jordan began his Pear Charlotte, a ladyfinger cake filled with a creamy mousse and diced pears. Homemade ladyfingers was a skill that I looked forward to acquiring - my last attempt had been several months ago while making tiramisu before coming to Paris. They looked absolutely nothing like Jordan's masterpiece.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSF44CnEswKZkgOMKvJ36dM_8Kw48hV2Y13AtmN_AQ8XVCFWBvuZjlDCowG8C6vp-evIhBGSQDYTC-0sxX8twrlhND0iuHxwa5xziiTMagISf_OgfMTqqXhde8wiLSeFdLEvapso7klA/s1600/20140804_110125_resized.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSF44CnEswKZkgOMKvJ36dM_8Kw48hV2Y13AtmN_AQ8XVCFWBvuZjlDCowG8C6vp-evIhBGSQDYTC-0sxX8twrlhND0iuHxwa5xziiTMagISf_OgfMTqqXhde8wiLSeFdLEvapso7klA/s1600/20140804_110125_resized.jpg" height="308" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Chef Jordan's Pear Charlotte</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
The class continued smoothly until about the last five minutes when a student made the fatal error of taking out her cell phone. Jordan demanded that she leave the room. While I tend to feel some embarrassment for students when this sort of punishment happens (particularly because 90% of the class doesn't have the maturity not to turn around and stare at the offender), I've yet to see a student not make it worse for himself or herself. In this instance the girl stayed seated as if she didn't believe that he was serious, then she tried to argue her case to the translator, and finally when the chef glanced up and asked why she was still there, she stormed out with a "Sorry, chef." Jordan had the final word, though, when he had the translator take attendance again to make sure that the student was marked absent (and consequently, not allowed to attend her practicum).<br />
<br />
<i><u>Tuesday</u></i><br />
<br />
Chef Bogen began our day with a demonstration on roasted duckling, oysters, and an orange Cointreau soufflé for dessert (when a student asked why the school used Cointreau in so many recipes, chef explained the very scientific reason: the president of the school is André Cointreau, an heir of the Cointreau "empire" which, incidentally, owns most of the school). It was, quite possibly, one of the worst demonstrations ever, leaving many students speculating on the sobriety of Bogen. I tried taking good notes on the duck preparation because it would be in our practical, but I eventually gave up attempting to follow the other dishes after it appeared that the chef forgot that we were even there.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDr9Sz7afjLiwRQK8uMxcPKTSmf-rioYAXHR70VtEOYrIl33E7qxF8Y7gTzrzWYXjdsSJyrvP99EJ5qBy9R09xHGIDGqy3Wk-1_Ypd1WG2ojOpPAkV_wmHpzRRoVq4xiqu2JnH2f2WFQ/s1600/Oysters+(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDr9Sz7afjLiwRQK8uMxcPKTSmf-rioYAXHR70VtEOYrIl33E7qxF8Y7gTzrzWYXjdsSJyrvP99EJ5qBy9R09xHGIDGqy3Wk-1_Ypd1WG2ojOpPAkV_wmHpzRRoVq4xiqu2JnH2f2WFQ/s1600/Oysters+(2).JPG" height="97" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Oysters and orange soufflé (roasted duck not pictured)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
After lunch a somewhat more composed Bogen delivered our last basic theory lesson on vegetable cuts, sauces, and soups before the Grand Diplome students proceeded on to their pastry practicum to make our Pear Charlottes with Chef Cotte. It was my first encounter with the man since Saturday's cuisine practical fiasco, but things went much more smoothly. The ladyfingers were surprisingly simple (arm-numbing whisking aside) and Cotte even praised my marzipan leaves which made me think that there may be hope for the decorator in me after all.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2uoSSbhuaQUgWN4ZukGfx12bo0VmlInJ2cxSJuFc7BbWN1r3vkmybGBCtE9_Y-0NqMffXmQHvj38Bk5VtyW8-msnGg-aJjR2igMVxUGQ3ZQ-noNKrL2vJ1fTltMd-S_9cnQBe3I6tqQ/s1600/Pear+Charlotte+Practical+(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2uoSSbhuaQUgWN4ZukGfx12bo0VmlInJ2cxSJuFc7BbWN1r3vkmybGBCtE9_Y-0NqMffXmQHvj38Bk5VtyW8-msnGg-aJjR2igMVxUGQ3ZQ-noNKrL2vJ1fTltMd-S_9cnQBe3I6tqQ/s1600/Pear+Charlotte+Practical+(2).JPG" height="277" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My Pear Charlotte</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<i><u>Wednesday</u></i><br />
<br />
We were with Cheff Cotte again in the morning where he was demonstrating how to make Mogador, a chocolate mousse cake with raspberry jam accents. He did some fancy little chocolate garnishes during the downtime of waiting for the mousse to firm up. These "extras" are often a look into our future lives as Intermediate or Superior pastry students where decorating and presentation will take center stage.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX2Z_Z5lhV30dFzLA3UsOzrS5XCudda-r0-z9i8uCv4Db8hE428JrUyBa9YmvcYEK4sWz3-Zcg-8UJzig24xhuwKVLKGyQ-zanUv5qbkCECy9pSz3Zxh6wJaEPW8nfcbxlVBTusakL_Q/s1600/Mogador+Demo+(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX2Z_Z5lhV30dFzLA3UsOzrS5XCudda-r0-z9i8uCv4Db8hE428JrUyBa9YmvcYEK4sWz3-Zcg-8UJzig24xhuwKVLKGyQ-zanUv5qbkCECy9pSz3Zxh6wJaEPW8nfcbxlVBTusakL_Q/s1600/Mogador+Demo+(2).JPG" height="225" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mogador and fancy chocolate garnish</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
After class dismissed I had about four hours to kill, so I used the opportunity to go home and get some study time in for the written patisserie exam on Thursday. It wasn't my first attempt at studying for the exam, but it was the first time that I managed to do so while staying awake. Knowing how to study was the greater issue - I knew that we would have terms from our glossary but the rest was something of a mystery, so I simply began going through my recipes and typing out the directions from my old notes.<br />
<br />
Chef Bogen was waiting for us in the roast duckling practical that afternoon. Normally I like getting the same chef in practical as we have in demonstration because we can count on consistency, but it was our first time in the kitchen with Bogen and we had heard many rumors about how he conducted his classes. Plus he seemed to have sobered up a good bit.<br />
<br />
He actually was fairly patient and helpful, but he has a reputation for demanding orderliness in the practicals. He began the class by scolding us for coming into the kitchen and starting without him, a habit that we had formed with other chefs, and then he gave us a breakdown of our steps and his expected timetable for each one, ending with the admonition to always keep our stations clean. Thus began a terrible practical. <br />
<br />
Chef would stop our work to call a "family meeting" (hint: always take pots off the stove in case said meeting stretches into 5 minutes) or come by our stations and have conversations with us about our organization. At one point as I was working with about three pots on the stove, he came by, pulled the de-boning knife from my utensil tray, and placed it in the spatula/rolling pin drawer below. He proceeded to tell a story about how much he paid for his chef's knife in school and how well he took care of it.<br />
<br />
While I appreciated the story, I couldn't understand the moral and my onions were burning. From day one we learned to store all of the clean knives and utensils that we would need in an aluminum tray. Leaving a knife in one of the drawers was counter-intuitive because another student could cut his or her hand while reaching in to get a spatula or the roll of parchment paper (and let's be honest - I would be the most likely person to do it). I also wasn't sure why he singled out the de-boning knife when my tray had about six other knives and utensils in it. With a confused look on my face I asked, "Do you want me to keep my knives in the drawer?" He simply gave an exasperated shrug and rolled his eyes, replying, "Do whatever you want," and walked away. I thought for a second, pulled the knife back out of the drawer, and continued working.<br />
<br />
After several more pauses, we ended class far outside of Bogen's timetable, my duck, radishes, and onions were overcooked, and for once I had over-reduced (rather than under-reduced) my sauce into a demi-glaze. While everyone walked out a little downtrodden, I kind of appreciated Bogen. As basic students we get a lot of passes from chefs, but he was attempting to prepare us for the next two levels. Spots on the stove or poorly placed knives (when I figure out what that means exactly) could one day be the difference between passing and failing.<br />
<br />
The Grand Diplome students had to rush upstairs smelling of sweat and duck fat to join the freshly-pressed pastry-only students who were already in the process of making their Mogadors with Chef Tranchant. We caught up, though, and chef declared that all of our cakes were a success. Basic pastry always feels a million times easier when it follows a cuisine practicum.<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHJ9XOO7euSNhyphenhyphenpL-DEpN4SQHe0Q49aPMg3ZK3l3wRw9tzSPu3CnVS-L4F-mgocBNH6iBNKJjd6rj1mvjh8gulXdYMbF-x1PhEu2aptG2MshdYCs9jasfKiYvCDNTZPyxIDrjlYTCL5Q/s1600/MogadorPractical.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHJ9XOO7euSNhyphenhyphenpL-DEpN4SQHe0Q49aPMg3ZK3l3wRw9tzSPu3CnVS-L4F-mgocBNH6iBNKJjd6rj1mvjh8gulXdYMbF-x1PhEu2aptG2MshdYCs9jasfKiYvCDNTZPyxIDrjlYTCL5Q/s1600/MogadorPractical.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
<br />
<i><u>Thursday</u></i><br />
<br />
The basic pastry written exam was... difficult. It contained only about fifty questions and they were all either multiple choice, true/false, or matching, but very few covered the areas that I had studied. Most of my time was spent on learning cooking terms and studying things like types of meringues or differences in pastry doughs. Many questions centered on really specific details that I never thought to learn, though, such as, "What is the ratio of cream to sugar in Chantilly cream?" or, "At what temperature do you bake a genoise?" In our final exam they will give us the ingredient list which contains exact measurements and the chefs have always controlled the ovens in pastry practicums, so these were details that never crossed my mind. The written exam is only 10% of our final grade, though, and I believe that I knew at least 50% of the answers with great certainty.<br />
<br />
A demonstration on beef stroganoff was scheduled for the afternoon, but I had instead my appointment with the <a href="http://www.ofii.fr/" target="_blank">OFII</a> (French Office of Immigration and Integration) to get my <i>carte de séjour</i>, a sort of residency permit that the government requires in addition to the student visa. It is the only absence that the school excuses because one cannot negotiate appointment times with the French government, apparently.<br />
<br />
The process was simple enough - I handed over my passport, proof of an apartment lease, and a passport photo - and they gave me a sort of physical consisting of weight and height measurements, an eye test (my left eye failed miserably but they couldn't understand my explanation of optic neuritis), a chest scan to ensure that I didn't have tuberculosis, and a game of 20 Questions with a very friendly doctor. The purpose of the whole ordeal is to make sure that I won't have any trouble getting back into the country should I decide to leave it when my passport stamp expires after 90 days. A few stamps and signatures later, I walked out the door a completely legal temporary French resident.<br />
<br />
Even though it was an excused absence, I really hated missing my class because 1) I paid a lot for it, 2) we can't attend the practical class if we miss the demonstration, 3) the dish is one of the ten recipes listed for the final exam (we draw a recipe on the day of the exam, kind of like a lottery but without any winners), and 4) I really wanted some beef stroganoff. No amount of pleading with student services could get me into the practical although they were not willing to guarantee that I would not have to do this recipe for my exam. I really hate the expression, "That's not fair!" but I had to bite my tongue to keep it from coming out of my lips right then.<br />
<br />
<i><u>Friday</u></i><br />
<br />
On the bright side, I was able to sleep in on Friday morning after a week of 8:30 AM classes every day. A little part of me still felt bummed that my classmates were making a meal without me, and when I did finally arrive at school at 12:30 and they told me that they had Chef Vaca for the first time and that everyone did great and that it was the easiest and fastest dish EVER I felt a little more bummed, but I'm almost over it. I comfort myself by assuming that I would probably have done something to slow everybody down.<br />
<br />
Vaca was doing this demonstration on clams, pork medallions in charcuterie sauce, and pommes Dauphine, an odd but tasty mix of deep-fried potatoes and choux pastry. For dessert we had fresh raspberries and strawberries covered in sauce and ice cream. The pork was, of course, served slightly pink (apparently the only meat that the French cook to well-done is chicken).<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFD8HxiSu7fpq4cywKHbN-F3p4CPRPDPQvxau0V3nZ4TaRLrDvVf6p33EwTAjCW4A9xnt6t6ZbZRs4Abo4kPKCtf_mxeOJRkQd1J8Zs7mhsftl03T7nwtRMm20W2ysmkiGXXWt8uQQ_g/s1600/Pork+Medallions+(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFD8HxiSu7fpq4cywKHbN-F3p4CPRPDPQvxau0V3nZ4TaRLrDvVf6p33EwTAjCW4A9xnt6t6ZbZRs4Abo4kPKCtf_mxeOJRkQd1J8Zs7mhsftl03T7nwtRMm20W2ysmkiGXXWt8uQQ_g/s1600/Pork+Medallions+(2).JPG" height="237" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pork medallions and pommes Dauphine; clams; more clams;<br />
fresh fruit dessert with ice cream</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
We topped off our week with an afternoon demonstration revisiting puff pastries. They differed slightly from the apple turnovers/palmiers in the turning of the dough, although for the life of me I couldn't tell the difference in the final result. Chef Cotte loaded us up with Pithivier (or King's Cake), Dartois, Sacristains (twists), "Country-style" bread, and his own special creation of an apricot tarte. Everything but the sacristains were loaded with almond cream, naturally. Next to pastry cream it's the French go-to filling.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglTriYrToGvprUphQLn7mmA361ZCvZNPWiCdQ_9cxWxOLLMl3TEmDqVKHpWamaSCVE_IEZXMrcuTqmc5G_Mq71cqyA9r3HG_kjgqrS-z5Z18J-u7uLKV9CEsM_mIfDKG5j5efGXSW4mw/s1600/Dartois+(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglTriYrToGvprUphQLn7mmA361ZCvZNPWiCdQ_9cxWxOLLMl3TEmDqVKHpWamaSCVE_IEZXMrcuTqmc5G_Mq71cqyA9r3HG_kjgqrS-z5Z18J-u7uLKV9CEsM_mIfDKG5j5efGXSW4mw/s1600/Dartois+(2).JPG" height="242" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pithivier, dartois, sacristains, apricot tarte, and country-style bread</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<i><u>Saturday</u></i><br />
<br />
Having my first Saturday off since school began, I of course chose to use my free time... to go to a kitchen store. <a href="http://eshop.e-dehillerin.fr/" target="_blank">Dehillerin</a> isn't just any kitchen store, though - it's stuffed full from floor to ceiling with every kind of pot, pan, dish, and utensil in every size and shape imaginable, all at surprisingly reasonable prices (and I got 10% off with my student ID). I managed to keep to my list, though - a fish scaler, fish bone tweezers, a 20-cm ring mold, and tongs. Gretchen, a lover of kitchen doo-hickeys as well, joined me at the store before we went in search of lunch.<br />
<br />
For once I had researched restaurants in advance and found a Mexican place that had good reviews (always taken with a grain of salt - I don't recall a mass of Mexican immigrants in Paris but the reviews did mention chipotle, something some of my chefs have never heard of). What I didn't realize was that it was in a rather sketchy neighborhood where Gretchen and I stood out like sore thumbs, and when we finally reached the location we discovered that like 60% of businesses in Paris, it was closed for the month of August.<br />
<br />
During our walk through the sketchy neighborhood, though, we had passed a place that had an incredible aroma wafting from it - a sort of spicy scent that set our tongues to watering - so heading back in that direction we started to sniff the air for it and came upon a little hole-in-the-wall (quite literally - it was hardly more than short counter outside under a window) Turkish restaurant. We hopped onto some stools and both settled on chicken in a flour wrap with fries and spicy sauce, then we watched as the cook hand-rolled out our wraps before sliding them into a sort of pizza oven. My empty stomach may have been coloring my judgment, but it was the best sandwich ever.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhTAAHJgunUqTaEwmAlhM5r7ZR8i5Y2SKloMHr6Brcuf-ClvP7M29C8lqk2IXdwaUKftBWLTevI450F8vKCMCQ-b_lHELXN2gZNIoonlrNYwgVKT52-q76T6FTZe5FUPjMNyuol9Ch8Q/s1600/TurkResto+(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhTAAHJgunUqTaEwmAlhM5r7ZR8i5Y2SKloMHr6Brcuf-ClvP7M29C8lqk2IXdwaUKftBWLTevI450F8vKCMCQ-b_lHELXN2gZNIoonlrNYwgVKT52-q76T6FTZe5FUPjMNyuol9Ch8Q/s1600/TurkResto+(2).JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Strategically placed chicken to tempt passer-bys</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Fully satisfied, we visited a few more kitchen stores, stopped at a café for ice cream, sampled some macarons and rose petal marshmallows from <a href="https://www.laduree.com/fr_fr/" target="_blank">Ladurée</a> ("fully satisfied" doesn't last forever), and headed down to the Seine to see the popular <a href="http://www.paris.fr/english/visit/highlights/paris-plages/rub_8208_stand_34146_port_18969" target="_blank">Paris Plage</a>, a beach setup that the Parisians do every summer (probably to give all of the people who are off for the month of August something to do).<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYxcEhG3hbhKLAn3oOHpn88qsr5-tayrEvKyI6kfcU_I-oV85GfhQkrtbdPB-W3IdRq_IO0pv5-7gIeZ66MJxQKYyTCcmL3MoES6x-Mu9-udGKmIwVrCRLcF14GmBcgZ1vsem93C702Q/s1600/ParisPlage+(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYxcEhG3hbhKLAn3oOHpn88qsr5-tayrEvKyI6kfcU_I-oV85GfhQkrtbdPB-W3IdRq_IO0pv5-7gIeZ66MJxQKYyTCcmL3MoES6x-Mu9-udGKmIwVrCRLcF14GmBcgZ1vsem93C702Q/s1600/ParisPlage+(2).JPG" height="340" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Beach" along the Seine</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15818532587630238644noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7055176771372598926.post-67923741520260725812014-08-04T09:26:00.002-07:002014-09-08T03:52:24.322-07:00Basic Week SevenHaving been in Paris for almost two months now, I've noticed myself starting to pick up a few habits that I will have to break upon my return to the states:<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>Cheek kissing. Not being the touchy type, at first I would visibly cringe when I saw someone coming in for the dreaded <i>bise</i>; however, once I figured out that the greeter's lips rarely make contact with the victim's, er, recipient's face, it became less intimidating - more like an air kiss. Now I accept the greeting much more easily, although I've yet to make the first "move." When I do, though... Watch out, America!</li>
<li>Using the word "toilet" instead of "bathroom." Admittedly, I still giggle inwardly whenever someone says something like, "My brother is in the toilet," but I've found that people don't look at me as strangely when I ask for directions to the toilet instead of to the bathroom.</li>
<li>Disregarding germs. Paris is a germ-infested city, particularly if you set foot into a metro station, but it doesn't seem to bother anyone. Actually, America might be the only germaphobic nation in the world. I watched a student with a can of soda the other day trying to finish it off before class, so he passed it around to about 4 or 5 other students to take a swig. There was a time when seven students plus a chef sticking their testing spoons into my sauce would have caused me to throw the whole batch away, but now I just box it up for later. I even ate a croissant that a chef had bled on, but I'll get back to that later.</li>
<li>Not smiling. I no longer have to remind myself not to smile at cashiers or someone whom I pass on the sidewalk - it just comes naturally. That's not to say that I never smile anymore, but it's reserved mostly for people with whom I'm already acquainted or for humorous situations.</li>
<li>Eating butter with everything. Unless I can find something equivalent to what they have here, I will have no choice but to give it up.</li>
<li>Ignoring my hair. When you have to wear your hair up six days a week and cover it in a cap for much of that time, "styling" is something to consider only on Sundays. The other day I wore only my bangs down instead of pulled back for the first time in weeks because I didn't need to wear my cap, and no less than four students asked what was different about me. One girl insisted that I must have colored my hair and just looked skeptical when I said that it simply lacked a headband or bobby pins.</li>
<li>Defining what constitutes "dirty." Do the math: the school gives us three jackets, two pairs of trousers, three tea towels, three neckerchiefs, three aprons, and two hats. This past week I sweated through five greasy cuisine practicums and two pastry practicums along with several demonstrations in rooms with poorly-functioning air conditioners. Often my only free times to do laundry are Saturday evenings and Sunday (one load of wash takes 2.5 hours, then clothes must hang for at least a day to dry). Obvious stains are about the only things now that necessitate a change in uniform, and even then if it's just on the front panel of the jacket then the button snaps can be switched, aprons can be turned inside-out, and tea towels can be refolded.</li>
</ul>
<div>
It was another busy week, with 45 hours of classes, 33 of those being within the first three days.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<i><u>Monday</u></i></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Monday brought with it a moral dilemma when a girl whose locker is close to mine asked if she could borrow one of my chef's jackets just for her morning class. Obviously I had extras because I arrived at school with my bag loads of clean, pressed uniforms, but I didn't know her and she wasn't in any of my classes. With such variable schedules we could go for days without running into each other. But then I thought that if I forgot part of my uniform and risked an absence, I would hope that someone would bail me out, plus I have trouble with the word "no," so I handed her a jacket. Plus there's that large bag of sharp knives in my locker if things get "difficult."<br />
<br />
Chef Vaca led a demonstration on roasting and braising red meats and more vegetable turning. The braised beef was actually quite nice - more like tri-tip - but the roasted sirloin was a bit too close to it's pre-deceased form for my taste. The French have only four cooking levels for meat: <i>bleu</i> (raw; lit. "blue"), <i>saignant</i> (rare; lit. "bleeding"), <i>à point</i> (not exactly medium, but more like "just right"), and <i>bien cuit</i> (well-done). Most Americans, however, would consider the French version of "well-done" to be closer to medium or even medium rare. The French would consider the American version of "well-done" to be... sacrilegious.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJzcUckkQO-zGpnOMT8ACPGAQw85feh66t1FW4Zs0iqjSybaD7mJ0fEPS1RN-d_EgWrq_P4K40Lucz8zOatIvOwEBrb2B9a5Sr5USlHFkdDa2LnmB4qc8cvRr83Xnzp3OGySqtFS722w/s1600/MonRoastedSirloin1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJzcUckkQO-zGpnOMT8ACPGAQw85feh66t1FW4Zs0iqjSybaD7mJ0fEPS1RN-d_EgWrq_P4K40Lucz8zOatIvOwEBrb2B9a5Sr5USlHFkdDa2LnmB4qc8cvRr83Xnzp3OGySqtFS722w/s1600/MonRoastedSirloin1.JPG" height="143" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Roasted sirloin cooked <i>saignant</i> with puréed potatoes; Braised beef</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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In the cuisine practicum immediately following lunch we tried our hand only at the roasted sirloin and puréed potatoes with Asian chef. In true American form I overcooked my meat (I thought it was rare; he said it was medium-well at best) and under-mashed my potatoes. The French version of mashed potatoes is closer to the consistency of grits with plenty of cream and, of course, butter. We also began our beef bourguignon marinade so that it would be ready for cuisine practicum the following day.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUo2PWjTxAxy8rc79B4UgVZ_gBWFo5GBqrOJWi2glnJ79btdUYoApY5k0OOwtZf1yfsr4n93msJpIwF8-dK7uJxqgi_iVCaU5Lva3mNnTZUsw7gxOwJMpNNiRVNDWpK6NqJnmitXMaLg/s1600/MonPracRoastedIsirloin.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUo2PWjTxAxy8rc79B4UgVZ_gBWFo5GBqrOJWi2glnJ79btdUYoApY5k0OOwtZf1yfsr4n93msJpIwF8-dK7uJxqgi_iVCaU5Lva3mNnTZUsw7gxOwJMpNNiRVNDWpK6NqJnmitXMaLg/s1600/MonPracRoastedIsirloin.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My rare sirloin, or the French version of medium-well to well-done</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
The next event of the day was simply listed as "Stag" on our calendars, and we soon discovered that it was an information session about internships after/if we get all three certificates (basic, intermediate, and superior). In the intermediate level we will submit our applications and in the superior level the chefs will decide who will qualify based on their performance and proficiency in the French language. Internships last for two months after graduation and Grand Diplome students can choose cuisine, pastry, or both.<br />
<br />
Interns may be working 16-hour days for six days a week, usually doing the most grueling jobs until they can prove themselves. They aren't paid anything and have to be able to cover their own living expenses. Employers will sometimes treat them like dirt, taking advantage of the free employees who have little repercussion. Of course, most internships are in Paris and all of them are only in France.<br />
<br />
Before coming to Le Cordon Bleu I had tossed around the idea of trying for the internship but never really gave it serious consideration. As I sat in that meeting, though, I was struck with the most overwhelming desire to do it - both in cuisine and pastry - in spite of the knowledge that it would probably be some of the hardest months of my life. The experience would open up so many more doors than a simple little diploma. My desire goes beyond just a resumé enhancer, though - working in a Paris kitchen and/or pastry shop for two months would boost my confidence in starting a career back home. It has become a part of my daily prayers.<br />
<br />
I didn't get my jacket back.<br />
<br />
<i><u>Tuesday</u></i><br />
<br />
It was a twelve-hour class day, but nine of those hours were in demonstrations. The first six were solely focused on making croissant and brioche dough. Both breads require rising time, so the first three hours covered dough preparation while the second three hours involved shaping and baking the pastries.<br />
<br />
From the croissant dough Chef Pascal was able to make croissants, pain au chocolat, apricot pastries, and cherry pinwheels. From the brioche dough he made multiple sizes and variations of bread as well as raisin buns. As if that weren't enough, he took all of the dough scraps, rolled them out in sugar, and baked them in a large pan. Our "sample" plates were amazing.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyz7bLEhewD3Jv9y58VeQRarbbVvV9Fu-7Ux36iuiKRTECQqRhH7Cpghyphenhyphen2R-NSqJ6DrWpJUNNGEqSz3hrH8FhLqIMou4LnAiQinVvBSH7_yu-BTjnjh0VNq-MkcMpxdh2TW5pCbAZPgA/s1600/TueCroissants.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyz7bLEhewD3Jv9y58VeQRarbbVvV9Fu-7Ux36iuiKRTECQqRhH7Cpghyphenhyphen2R-NSqJ6DrWpJUNNGEqSz3hrH8FhLqIMou4LnAiQinVvBSH7_yu-BTjnjh0VNq-MkcMpxdh2TW5pCbAZPgA/s1600/TueCroissants.JPG" height="126" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Croissants, pain au chocolat, apricot pastries, cherry pinwheels,<br />
variations of brioche, and raisin buns</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
The afternoon and evening classes consisted primarily of the demonstration and practicum for cooking the beef bourguignon. Because we had already done most of the meat preparation the previous day, we dedicated the majority of our time to turning potatoes, peeling pearl onions, stemming button mushrooms, and cutting bread into croutons. I've come to terms with turning vegetables - my technique could use plenty of improvement but they're less terrifying - and tiny mushrooms are a pain but go quickly; however, the pearl onions are my newest nemesis. Peeling one onion takes 30 to 60 seconds because they have to be perfect, so when I have to do ten to twenty onions, it turns into a huge ordeal that can make or break the whole class.<br />
<br />
Despite the tediousness of the onions, I was keeping on track with the rest of the class until my sauce started dragging me down. For one thing, I had added too much water and not enough flour during the braising and the reduction was taking forever, but it also had a sort of sour or rancid flavor as it reduced. I noticed a student next to me using sugar to solve the flavor issue and I followed her lead. In an attempt to speed me up so that he could go home, Filipino chef came by and started adding butter to finish my sauce. Finally I was able to plate my dish and watched anxiously as the chef tasted everything. The meat was good and the vegetables were cooked well, but he just nodded when he tasted the sauce. Looking up he addressed the rest of the room with, "This is how I want your sauce to be. Everyone come taste it!" My success again felt like a bit of a fluke, but I was inwardly beaming.<br />
<br />
Still no chef's jacket...<br />
<br />
<i><u>Wednesday</u></i><br />
<br />
The day was sort of a reverse of Tuesday with nine hours of practicums and three hours of demonstration. The first six hours were in the kitchen making our croissant and brioche pastries with Chef Cotte. It was our first practicum with Cotte although his name was already familiar to everyone ("notorious" might be a better word). Cotte is a big man who likes to shout a lot as he stares wide-eyed at us through his glasses. It's not necessarily scary shouting because maybe half the time he is being funny, although I'm never 100% certain when that is his intention. He's also known to break frequently into "<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hdcTmpvDO0I" target="_blank">I like to move it, move it!</a>"<br />
<br />
I was the pastry class assistant along with one of the boys, which meant that chef yelled at us a lot more. During something that I was apparently doing wrong, chef stood next to me hollering in my ear, "What did I say? Four, five times I tell you this!" My problem is that even when the chef's tell us to do something in English, it's so broken that I don't understand or worse, I misunderstand, but I can't exactly explain it to the chef that way. Instead I just replied with "Sorry, chef - I misunderstoood. Oui chef." But then he gave me a friendly slap me on the shoulder which made me think that he wasn't actually angry.<br />
<br />
In the second half of class when we began to form our dough, chef came by to correct the way that I was rolling my croissants. A bright streak of blood suddenly appeared on my dough. Chef looked at his cut finger, cursed, and continued to roll my croissant, leaving another spot or two of blood before plopping it on the tray. Removing it from the tray seemed like a bad idea with him watching, and it got mixed with my other croissants in the post-baking shuffle meaning that I've already eaten it or that I will in the next two days. Perhaps eating the tainted croissant will help me develop super-chef powers... or I am now a vampire.<br />
<br />
The afternoon demonstration was on marinated raw salmon, poached meat, rice pilaf, and sweet yeast dough. The salmon was not to my liking at all - the texture made me gag a little - and the veal stew and rice were one of the more bland meals that we've tried so far, but chef's sugar tarts were quite nice. Bogen is a hard chef to follow in demonstrations, but he is an artist when it comes to plating and presentation.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN4UI_ylDrF9JEKoRY3iRwgH5OxP5lhqv7B589s6FI0ShS5RVAp0STF4gpj2X9t7Q18kJekx4uetcM776IGLDYoUpN_h3eEOBtKguTP3Lsa-gCnKyGCtTk3v5OxhxrvDKYn4kj7qBmog/s1600/WedVealStew2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN4UI_ylDrF9JEKoRY3iRwgH5OxP5lhqv7B589s6FI0ShS5RVAp0STF4gpj2X9t7Q18kJekx4uetcM776IGLDYoUpN_h3eEOBtKguTP3Lsa-gCnKyGCtTk3v5OxhxrvDKYn4kj7qBmog/s1600/WedVealStew2.JPG" height="98" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Veal Stew & rice pilaf; marinated salmon;<br />
sugar tart in a "nest" made from caramelized sugar strands</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Asian chef led our practicum that followed the class. We had only to do the veal stew and rice pilaf with more button mushrooms and those cursed pearl onions. My successful sauce streak ended with this class. While it was seasoned well and had a good flavor, I had made the fatal error of over-heating it on the stove and cooking the eggs in it, creating a sort of grainy texture.<br />
<br />
On a happy note, I finally ran into the girl that had borrowed my chef's jacket on Monday. She looked almost as relieved as I was to return it. It actually did look clean and I could've used a fresh jacket after everything that I had put my uniforms through over the past three days, but some inkling of germaphobia still rested within me and it went home with the dirty clothes.<br />
<br />
<i><u>Thursday</u></i><br />
<br />
After a crazy start to the week, I had the blessing of being able to sleep in on Thursday morning. Only one class was on the day's schedule, but at 12:30 we had to meet Chef Vaca for our basic cuisine mid-semester evaluation update. This one concerned me more than the pastry evaluation, but my score, though not great and only slightly better than the pastry evaluation, ended up being a little more than the class average. Actually, most students in my class were above average (another student informed me that I was ranked fifth out of eight), making me wonder if they were also factoring in the two girls who stopped coming to classes about four weeks ago. Whatever - I'll take it.<br />
<br />
Chef Vaca had us again in the demonstration where he made a Flemish pie from leeks and stinky cheese (little French cuisine trivia: a "tarte" is a pie without a top crust while a "torte" is a pie with a top crust). He followed that with grilled tournedos cooked rare, medium, and well-done and a Béarnaise sauce (another thing that I've learned is that the "-aise" sauces are typically types of emulsions - mayonnaise, hollandaise, Béarnaise, etc.). As a special treat he made some incredible frozen mocha parfaits, just perfect for an uncomfortably warm classroom.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEir2cVxwU4Py8fi1M_44t_DD9Rbr8f-CV7nbOTbWGOPwW1gYL2JV4v1LVbJ7lFYHvka7bylakOY5feXJ4bN7f7CR1CciZiRdA4CBwIuA6MwZ2K0Q4xVO5kw9Dc4RLWzWgyY9znJJUNZAw/s1600/ThuTournedos1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEir2cVxwU4Py8fi1M_44t_DD9Rbr8f-CV7nbOTbWGOPwW1gYL2JV4v1LVbJ7lFYHvka7bylakOY5feXJ4bN7f7CR1CciZiRdA4CBwIuA6MwZ2K0Q4xVO5kw9Dc4RLWzWgyY9znJJUNZAw/s1600/ThuTournedos1.JPG" height="113" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Grilled tournedos with Béarnaise sauce, turned artichokes,<br />
and potatoes <i>pont-neuf</i>; Flemish pie; frozen mocha parfait</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<i><u>Friday</u></i><br />
<br />
Our one class for Friday didn't start until 6:30 in the evening. I used the free time to give the apartment a good cleaning and to organize my budget spreadsheets for August (yes, the plural <i>spreadsheets</i> - I now have to keep one for US dollars and one for euros). I pulled up <a href="https://www.apple.com/ios/facetime/" target="_blank">FaceTime</a> with my mom later in the afternoon to bemoan my issues with a soon-to-expire <a href="http://www.greenvillelibrary.org/" target="_blank">library</a> card (they extended my membership to the end of the year after I applied the, "If at first you don't succeed, keep contacting different people until one of them helps you" principle). Much to my surprise and pleasure, my sister and all six of her kids were visiting at the time, giving me the opportunity to chat with everyone. Have I mentioned how much I love FaceTime?<br />
<br />
That evening the female Korean chef asked us to grill our tournedos in the three styles as chef had done - rare, medium, and well-done. She would then ask us which steak was which style before she cut into them to test. All of mine ended up being overcooked again despite the feeling that I had nailed it. The Béarnaise sauce was just okay but lacked enough herb flavor, but the fries were pretty good and I polished off all of them between the kitchen and my locker for dinner.<br />
<br />
<i><u>Saturday</u></i><br />
<br />
Classes didn't start until 12:30 on Saturday so I slept in a little late and then pattered around the studio in my pajamas, poaching practice eggs for breakfast and washing the linens. Thus was my state when the doorbell rang at 9:00 AM. Peering through the peep-hole I saw that it was the mailman holding what I knew had to be the box of my winter shoes that my parents had shipped, and the French don't leave boxes at your door without a signature. I waited a second until I didn't hear the voice of other tenants in the hallway before quickly opening the door a crack, signing my name, grabbing the box, and slamming the door shut again. At least I'll have something to wear on my feet in a few weeks!<br />
<br />
Saturday's demonstration and practicum centered on sautéed veal chops with, "grandmother-style" garnish (sautéed "bacon" lardons, button mushrooms, and potatoes and caramelized pearl onions). Chef Vaca also made a heavenly mussel soup and a type of strawberry shortcake - shortbread rolled with toasted pistachios and hazelnuts, then topped with layers of cream and strawberries and drizzled with caramel sauce and balsamic vinaigrette for a surprisingly good combination of flavors.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcJ85OAyjzLz6AdEkEvrs6vNHs-3bf5dg_x7-2HmCGo3y5Sj1C8vxKVkdJm9-_a6D6rWXsxpQ9rUUeOhpObUfkZMcZIoWsRdIA66AVsrsTQOcYhfI8mYzGL1isg0bx8iR_xYrBQc453g/s1600/SatSauteedVealChops.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcJ85OAyjzLz6AdEkEvrs6vNHs-3bf5dg_x7-2HmCGo3y5Sj1C8vxKVkdJm9-_a6D6rWXsxpQ9rUUeOhpObUfkZMcZIoWsRdIA66AVsrsTQOcYhfI8mYzGL1isg0bx8iR_xYrBQc453g/s1600/SatSauteedVealChops.JPG" height="97" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sautéed veal chop with <i>grand-mère </i>garnish; mussel soup; strawberry shortcake</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Chef Cotte was in our cuisine practicum that followed because he apparently fills in for both pastry and cuisine chefs who are on vacation. He began yelling right away, but we felt a little more comfortable with him after already surviving the croissant ordeal. The dish was "quick and easy" according to him and we should be finished by 5:00 PM - 90 minutes. Theoretically he was right - it should have been easy - but he went through a repeat of shouting "What did I say? Four.. Five times I tell you! You understand English, no?" in my ear. This time I was feeling more harried and replied with, "Sorry, chef - I don't understand your English!" He responded with a sort of slow-motion count-off on his fingers of what I was supposed to do, his wild eyes glaring at me.<br />
<br />
When it came time to mix some yolks for my sauce thickener, I realized that only two eggs were left (I needed four). Normally the class assistant would have to get any missing ingredients, but chef sent me to find more (he might have thought that I was the assistant). I went next door where equally harried students just stared at me when I asked if they had extra eggs. Afraid that Chef Bogen was about to slaughter me for interrupting his class, I finally had to go three floors down to the basement kitchen. By the time that I returned my classmates were starting to plate their dishes, so I worked frenetically to catch up.<br />
<br />
Chef Cotte wanted only two ovens on rather than all eight of ours to keep the room from getting too warm, and I had three saucepans to reheat in the oven. The only preheated one available to me was across the room and I could fit in only two pots at a time. Switching out pots I made the all-too common mistake of grabbing the handle of one of the saucepans that I had just pulled from the oven to carry back to the dishwasher after I had emptied its contents into another pan. I got about one step from the oven when my brain communicated to my hand that the handle was scorching hot and I sent the pan clattering across the floor. Running cold water over my hand did little to help because the temperature from the faucet was tepid at best. I grabbed some ice from the dishwashing room and attempted to hold it over my blistering palm while trying to begin my plating.<br />
<br />
A minute later, Cotte, noticing that I was acting strangely, said, "What's the matter with you?" I held up my hand and said, "I burned myself," and, much to my horror, I felt tears welling up in my eyes. He stared at me for a second and then yelled, "Do you want me to help you? DO YOU WANT ME TO HELP YOU?!?" I mustered a pathetic "Oui, chef," before the tears started spilling down my face.<br />
<br />
By now the whole class was watching, so he yelled for someone to bring him vinegar and butter, then yelled at someone because they actually brought him butter ("I asked for vinegar! Why you bring butter?"). He poured the vinegar over my hand before soaking a paper towel and wrapping up my palm. It eased the pain for a few seconds and I was actually laughing at him and myself, but as most women will understand, once the waterworks started I couldn't turn them off... for the rest of the evening. It was as if the lack of tears over the past two months culminated into some hormonal explosion and the hand injury was just a trigger mechanism.<br />
<br />
I finished plating my meal and told the chef that it was ready, then I stood sniffling and wiping my eyes and nose with the towel around my hand as Cotte critiqued my dish. The veal chop was cooked well, but the potatoes were too crispy and, not surprisingly the sauce was cold and not reduced enough. Chef gave me some final advice to put more vinegar on my hand when I got home, then he patted me on the back and said something like, "You're a good person." I sniffled my way through boxing up my leftovers and cleaning my area. Everyone had left by the time that I finished, so I grabbed my boxes to leave... and dropped them, dumping the grand-mère garnish all over the floor (at least the lid to the veal chop stayed on).<br />
<br />
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<br />
For a moment I just stared at that beautiful garnish that I never got to taste and had so looked forward to eating when I got home, and then I did one of those semi-hysterical laughs, then I cleaned up the floor. My classmates were already changed and sitting around a table in the winter garden when I did the walk of shame past them, knowing full well that they would later tell the story to others about "the old lady in our class who cried." It was pouring rain as as I left but its coolness felt almost like a blessing after the last three hours despite my soaked flats trying to slip off of my feet for the mile-long walk home. That night I nursed my wound with more vinegar and some <a href="http://www.drugstore.com/solarcaine-cool-aloe-burn-relief-formula-pain-relieving-gel-with-lidocaine-hci/qxp26539" target="_blank">Solarcaine</a> that I didn't even realize I had packed, and by bedtime my hand hardly hurt and my tears had subsided.<br />
<br />
<i><u>Sunday</u></i><br />
<br />
On Sunday morning I had the privilege of talking to Fred and Ruth Coleman who had been conducting a music seminar at the <a href="http://eeb93.net/" target="_blank">church</a> all week. Fred has been the music director and Ruth has been the pianist at my <a href="http://www.hamptonpark.org/" target="_blank">church</a> in South Carolina for the past eight years, yet it was the first time that I had ever actually met them (my family is back-row organ siders while the Colemans stay closer to the piano, obviously). It reminded me of meeting Bob Jones, Jr. - despite attending <a href="http://www.bju.edu/" target="_blank">Bob Jones</a> from K5 through college, our first personal introduction didn't occur until after graduation when I was teaching at the <a href="http://logos.ac.cy/" target="_blank">Logos</a> school in Cyprus and he came to visit his old friend who had helped found the school.<br />
<br />
This next week promises to be a little more relaxed with fewer hours in the practicums, but we begin written exams on Thursday. Those tests shouldn't be too difficult, but hopefully I sufficiently drained all of my tear ducts and re-stabilized my emotions enough to survive the practical exams when they begin in two weeks. I don't think that I like this new, unpredictable crying thing.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15818532587630238644noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7055176771372598926.post-69075914319225554622014-07-28T15:48:00.001-07:002014-09-08T03:52:36.096-07:00Basic Week Six<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">This week was the fullest one by far as class schedules go, so I'll just dive right into it:</span><br />
<i><u><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></u></i>
<i><u><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Monday</span></u></i><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">It felt a bit like a holiday with only one class at 3:30 in the afternoon. We rounded out last week's lessons on forcemeat by making stuffed chicken breasts <i>au jus </i>with turned mushrooms. Stuffing chicken with chicken feels a bit presumptuous, but after pureeing the latter chicken with eggs and cream it created quite the tasty concoction. Mushroom turning was disastrous (apparently mastering the technique requires more than watching a <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4i-blr330n4" target="_blank">YouTube</a> video or observing Asian chef), my chicken was slightly under-cooked, and, as usual, my sauce needed more reduction.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<i><u><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Tuesday</span></u></i><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The morning began with Chef Pascal whipping up several types of tartelettes, little pies that can be filled with all sorts of goodness from fruits to creams to chocolate and everything in between. Lemon was my favorite, tasting almost like a lemon meringue pie, but I couldn't complain about the other varieties.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP56GihAieUikqcGfwVLDBLRmKfEy1mEFolqecMYPYvHEfJPbCXNaiwjzB_zGFx7rXGHeG_1PnGe_Y51SGIuKFxdNaP0y-L4ySZ5PZ0g7vdsWkRxtVnSMj5a9lc_8ej4IP7Z_d4apFzA/s1600/TueTarteletteDemo2+(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP56GihAieUikqcGfwVLDBLRmKfEy1mEFolqecMYPYvHEfJPbCXNaiwjzB_zGFx7rXGHeG_1PnGe_Y51SGIuKFxdNaP0y-L4ySZ5PZ0g7vdsWkRxtVnSMj5a9lc_8ej4IP7Z_d4apFzA/s1600/TueTarteletteDemo2+(2).JPG" height="145" width="400" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Lemon, orange, apricot, chocolate,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">almond </span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">cream, and pear tartelettes</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">After a brief break we went straight to our cuisine demonstration on rabbits and led by Chef Lesourd. Our expressions must have revealed the slight horror that accompanies cutting up rabbits, particularly when the heads are still on (rabbit meat must be sold with the head to verify that it is indeed a rabbit as opposed to, say, a cat). The fact that they were already skinned with the ears chopped off took away from the cuteness factor, but they had incredibly large, terrifying eyes.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Lesourd took a moment to explain that as heads of the food chain (as he put it), we shouldn't shy away from any meat. Some animals are raised solely for consumption and would not have existed otherwise. Rabbit farms provide a way of living for a lot of people, and even the controversial method of making foie gras keeps an entire village in business. His speech didn't make the prospect of cutting up a rabbit any more appealing, but at least it removed some of the guilt factor. For kicks he threw in a few flavored custards that, sadly, we ran out of time to sample.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigc73nizDH9TOuGASG0HJLJIJUO23ekHKnH5yIKRCFI_pgtHHtIvJ16i6erccbjCiNlxis4eZP4f4mgeg71XvYDQChVMFnJHzDnAp2VqEzYNOEOvlVyvFAOksFLXClCcpnMmkbM7bACw/s1600/TueRabbitDemo+(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigc73nizDH9TOuGASG0HJLJIJUO23ekHKnH5yIKRCFI_pgtHHtIvJ16i6erccbjCiNlxis4eZP4f4mgeg71XvYDQChVMFnJHzDnAp2VqEzYNOEOvlVyvFAOksFLXClCcpnMmkbM7bACw/s1600/TueRabbitDemo+(2).JPG" height="117" width="400" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Rabbit with potatoes and mustard sauce, mixed</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">vegetables, and custard with Lesourd's "personal touch"</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The strangest element of the demonstration was the translator. He was the only male one that we had ever had, and he hailed from Great Britain. He said "wabbit" instead of "rabbit" all during class. At first I felt sorry for him, thinking that it was a speech impediment until I noticed that he didn't have trouble with any other "r" words; after that it was just annoying. He also seemed to have some form of Tourettes that caused him to shout out quotes from movies in really bad impersonations.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Our cuisine practicum immediately followed the demonstration, and Chef Lesourd was in charge of our group. Cutting the rabbit was surprisingly simple as if its body were made for meat cuts, but somewhere along the way I still fell behind everyone but one other girl. Then I proceeded to make a near-fatal error.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The class shared one blender that chef wanted us to use for finishing the sauce, so when the other six students ahead of me finished with it I began to move my ingredients - the reduced rabbit stock, mustard, and whipped cream - toward the blender. Forgetting something, I left the station for a minute and then returned and dumped everything into the canister. The eighth student suddenly popped up by my side asking, "What are you doing?!?" When I had turned away she had poured her rabbit stock into the blender before going to get her other ingredients, but because the canister was already dirty from previous uses, I never even noticed that it wasn't empty.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">For a brief moment we just stared at each other, dumbfounded, before I began profusely to apologize. She tried to be cool about it although I could sense her irritation, and I couldn't blame her. Finally I told her just to dump the rest of her ingredients in with mine. The final result was far too runny; whether my stock or her stock was the culprit hardly mattered. Chef had warned us against reducing the sauce after it was mixed because mustard shouldn't be boiled, but we had no other choice.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I split the sauce into multiple pots to speed up the reduction because now we were <i>really </i>far behind, and when one of them began to boil she took it to her own stove to complete. Chef reprimanded us for boiling the mustard as he walked by our stoves and pointed out the time again saying, "You're behind! Your plate had better be very, very good!"</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Finally I got the meal plated, centering the prettiest cut of rabbit in a neat circle of sautéed potatoes and spooning the sauce around it. Lesourd tested the potatoes and said that they were good, then said that the rabbit was good, and even the rabbit gizzards skewered on a rosemary twig that I remembered to cook at the last second were done well. Finally he took a spoon and tested the sauce directly from the pot. He said, "Did you taste your sauce?" I thought I had, so I feebly replied, "Yes?" and he said, "And what did you think?" I took my spoon and took another taste before responding, "Not bad... Too salty?"</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Chef slapped me on the shoulder and said, "No, it's very good!" Then he announced to the class, "THIS is what the sauce should taste like! Come try it so that you will know next time," and the whole class filed by my station to taste my sauce. He praised the other girl's sauce as well so that in the end her annoyance with me was replaced with a high-five and "Way to go! We did it!"</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Not to toot my own horn because it was all completely a fluke or a miracle, but Chef said that you can know a great sauce when you see the customer using his bread to mop up the rest. I have been buying baguettes to eat with the leftover rabbit solely for that purpose (eating sauce with a spoon or licking the plate feels inappropriate).</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Backing up a little, one sad note to the week occurred at the start of our cuisine demonstration. A Student Services representative interrupted the class to notify us that one of the demonstration assistants, a Chinese girl who just graduated last semester, was killed on Wednesday when a Metro train hit her after she slipped and fell onto the tracks. I didn't know the girl personally and had seen her only in two or three demos, but the news shook up everyone in the room.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">For the rest of the week I thought about that girl - about how she, like most students, probably had big plans for her future with a prestigious diploma fresh in hand. As I age I become more aware of my own mortality, far more when I was in my teens and twenties, and yet I still fall into the trap of assuming that I have at least <i>x</i> amount of time to live.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Yes, I should still work towards future goals, but how much more should I work towards making each present moment count towards eternity? Martin Luther said, "<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; line-height: 18px;">Even if I knew that tomorrow the world would go to pieces, I would still plant my apple tree," but he also stated that,"</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; line-height: 18px;">There are two days in my calendar: This day and that Day," the latter referring to the day that we will all stand before God.</span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; line-height: 18px;"><i><u>Wednesday</u></i></span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 18px;">It was the first 12-hour class day for the Grand Diplome students - two three-hour demonstrations sandwiched between two three-hour practicums. Our second such day would occur on Friday. We remind ourselves often that if we were working in a restaurant we would expect just as many hours and much harder work, although I'm not sure that it makes us feel any better.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; line-height: 18px;">Chef Tranchant was waiting for us bright and early in the morning to begin our tartelettes. We were making only two types, the orange and chocolate ganache, and we were to do the latter recipe in pairs of two. It was the first "team effort" recipe, and I was happy to end up with M.J., a woman from New York who is close to my age and who works at about my same level and pace, if you know what I mean.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #181818; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 18px;">Although I had rolled out my dough too thickly and broke one of my shells, the tartelettes turned out quite tasty and M.J. and I worked well together. I did learn that if you ever have to <i>flamber</i> (torch) anything, such as the top of an orange tartelette in order to caramelize the sugar, you shouldn't do it on top of parchment paper. Fortunately I managed to snuff out the flames and dispose of the paper while the chef's back was turned and before any smoke alarms went off.</span></span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Five of my tartelettes (fortunately the presentation<br />board didn't hold room for #6).</span></td></tr>
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<span style="color: #181818; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 18px;">A pastry theory class followed the practicum at 12:30, and Chef Pascal taught us everything that we could possibly ever hope or want to know about flour and yeast. He mercifully finished in 90 minutes, leaving enough time before our next class for some people to run out and grab a late lunch. I decided that it wasn't worth the effort to change out of my uniform and instead read a <a href="https://kindle.amazon.com/" target="_blank">Kindle</a> book until our 3:30 class. Have I mentioned my love for modern technology - how I can at any given time pull my phone out of my pocket and have a library book right at my fingertips?</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #181818; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 18px;">Chef Lesourd walked the cuisine students through fish poaching, hollandaise sauce, and "cocquette" turned vegetables. "Fish" and "turning" are two words that now make me cringe, and I'm coming to the point where I almost hate fish. Aside from an unsatisfying flavor, the splinter-like bones that I am never able to remove entirely are quite upsetting. I have flashbacks to my life in Cyprus when Loula, my landlady/housemate, would boil fish at least once a week. The effort to eat an entire fish involved pulverizing each bite inside of my mouth with my tongue for several minutes before swallowing to ensure that I wouldn't catch a splinter in my throat. Some folks say that I tend to eat quickly (or everyone else just eats really slowly), so fish night was particularly maddening.</span></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwdR3cWvgljeexcSU9QnsW4sG4_R-k4E_nwcT3N7P-ZHz7lZbdqn54941MnMDNKozFex0ZxQ5L4IptC4JnYc-0BBMko1l9vim9mrtCEr2s582lpjYLmcTrdQXYVbv8wVaUMVssAL0p_Q/s1600/WedFishDemo2+(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwdR3cWvgljeexcSU9QnsW4sG4_R-k4E_nwcT3N7P-ZHz7lZbdqn54941MnMDNKozFex0ZxQ5L4IptC4JnYc-0BBMko1l9vim9mrtCEr2s582lpjYLmcTrdQXYVbv8wVaUMVssAL0p_Q/s1600/WedFishDemo2+(2).JPG" height="138" width="400" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Hake steak with Hollandaise sauce<br />and turned vegetables; grilled trout</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Filipino chef led our practicum after the demo and my food was just okay. I tried some of it myself and agreed, ruefully pulling a bone from my mouth. Batter-dipped deep-fried fish, though - now THAT is something that I could get excited about.</span><br />
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<i><u><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Thursday</span></u></i><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">After the prior full day, Thursday was quite relaxed with only a demonstration in the morning. Chef Pascal made caramelized pear and almond tarts with a meringue top, and he used the rest of of the dough to make little "boats" filled with caramel and almonds.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-mxlfLAY93gioPw6MODH9iaw7xGhZ-dyGo6lF8ShpFWviu-_vEibyy2gcVJFwZYHS-3bfJZ1x7ng0UIfK65Aknfz-m_kx8AAfzuZ-8xlABTqZwjSmsNc-QMxjfb8oCKa47fy3fgn3mg/s1600/ThuSweetPastryDemo+(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-mxlfLAY93gioPw6MODH9iaw7xGhZ-dyGo6lF8ShpFWviu-_vEibyy2gcVJFwZYHS-3bfJZ1x7ng0UIfK65Aknfz-m_kx8AAfzuZ-8xlABTqZwjSmsNc-QMxjfb8oCKa47fy3fgn3mg/s1600/ThuSweetPastryDemo+(2).JPG" height="211" width="400" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Pear tart; Caramel-almond boats</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Although the latter dessert looked pretty nice, the thought struck me that I never see pecans in French pastries - almonds are almost always the go-to nut. Finally I decided to ask chef the reason and he explained that it's simply a matter of cost - pecans are considered a "high" nut and would be used only in fancy or expensive pastries. Right then and there I knew why I could never live in France permanently: How could I even consider moving away from my hometown where pecans are so abundant that they lie rotting in the streets? What would life be without pecan pie, butter pecan ice cream, pecan pancakes, pecan pralines...</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The only event scheduled for the afternoon was a mid-term update of our grades for Basic Patisserie. Two of the groups were in this time slot for a total of 28 students, and we each waited in the winter garden as one student at a time was summoned upstairs to meet with Chef Pascal and a translator to go over the results. The names were in alphabetical order by first names which meant that most of the Asians were last because their names tend to start with either X, Y, or Z. K got me fourth place in line. I wasn't exactly nervous, although the four flights of stairs to the unairconditioned meeting room left me breathless and sweaty.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Pascal slipped the paper in front of me showing that I had a 3.359 out of 5 possible points. 2.5 is passing, so I might have been a little less deflated if the class average weren't 3.459. Below average... What a daunting thought. The next paper showed the evaluation grade for each practicum, and as I suspected, the infamous Moka was my downfall (no pun intended), with a grade of only 2 but a weight above several other practicums. In an effort to make me feel better, chef said that we had an exceptional group because the other class averages were around 3.1. In other words, I would be at the top of the class in the more deplorable groups. He threw in one last kind word, though, saying that for all of the classes in which he had worked with me, he thought that I was doing a very good job. Pascal has really grown on me.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">That afternoon I visited <a href="http://www.bouyguestelecom.fr/" target="_blank">Bouygues</a>, the telecom store from which I bought my six-month prepaid phone card, to find out why my card had expired after only one month. My natural guilt complex made me fairly certain that I had done something wrong and that I would have to throw out another large sum of money to fix it. The first guy discussed it with another guy who discussed it with some woman who appeared to be their manager. They finally all agreed that I ran out of minutes.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">"No," I explained again in my best French, "I received a message saying that my account would expire on the 22nd. I had <span style="background-color: white; line-height: 16.25px;">€</span>38 left on my account until the 23rd, and then it dropped to <span style="background-color: white; line-height: 16.25px;">€0</span><span style="background-color: white;">."</span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Girl: "Yes, if you used all of your minutes then it would expire." [She walks away.]</span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Me to guy still standing there: "But I didn't use them. It expired first; then my balance dropped to zero" [showing him my text message warning stating the expiration date].<br /><br />Guy: "Did you use the rest of your minutes? That would make it expire."</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;">Me: "No. I had a </span><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 16.25px;">€38 balance remaining until 11:59 PM on the 22nd. At 12:00 AM on the 23rd I had </span><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 16.25px;">€0.</span><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 16.25px;"> I didn't use all </span><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 16.25px;">€38 in that time</span><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 16.25px;">."</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 16.25px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 16.25px;">Just at the point where I was fairly certain that I had lost the battle, they suddenly began communicating with me in English, and finally the guy got on the phone with their customer service. I sat reading my Kindle book for half an hour while he listened to hold music. Finally, a voice came on the other line, they exchanged a few words, and just like that my minutes returned. Being good French people they never actually apologized or stated that it was their error, but I was so happy that I thanked them profusely (and probably apologized to them).</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 16.25px;">Upon returning to my apartment and looking up my account online, I saw that the expiration date had been pushed to... October 21, only four months from the time that I purchased the card rather than six months, but I figured that one battle per day was all that I could handle for now (plus there's a good possibility that I'll use up my minutes before then anyhow).</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 16.25px;"><i><u>Friday</u></i></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 16.25px;">This 12-hour class day consisted of two practicums sandwiched between two demonstrations. The first demonstration was a sort of continuation of the theme from Tuesday, with Chef Bogen showing us three new fish preparations. Like one of our earliest practicums, we would be filleting a flat fish in addition to turning more potatoes. Hooray.</span></span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Brill fillet with turned potatoes and lemon sauce; salmon; sole</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="line-height: 16.25px;">After a brief lunch break we headed into our pastry practicum with Chef Olivier (formerly referred to as Chef Mahut) to make the caramelized pear tarts. Except for in the first couple of practicums where chefs were trying to learn our names, we don't have assigned stations in the kitchen. After the first few classes students tend to pick out their permanent spots, though, kind of like a church pew, so you can imagine the tension when the Ukrainian girl found an Asian girl in "her spot" across from me that afternoon.</span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="line-height: 16.25px;">My guess is that after the Asian girl (AG) got her evaluation grade, she thought that a more ideal location in the kitchen might help improve her performance. The Ukrainian girl (UG) said, "This is my spot!" to which AG replied, "I here now." Nonplussed, UG responded with, "But I have been here all the time! After five week you move into my spot?" AG, without breaking stride in her preparation, just repeated, "I here now." UG stood blinking at her for a moment before taking up the now vacant location next to me.</span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="line-height: 16.25px;">Despite the turf wars, the class went well and Olivier praised us for good organization and teamwork (apparently he missed the little quibble at the beginning). Because we finished relatively early, he gathered us around to talk about the final exam. We'll all have to make the same pastry tart recipe, and in addition to that we will be drawing one of ten possible recipes from previous practicums right before the exam. It will consist only of the ingredients, so we must pull the method of preparation from our memory. The more worrisome part is finishing in under 2.5 hours - every minute over the time limit is a two-point deduction (the final is 100 points).</span></span></span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Lots o' tarts</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="line-height: 16.25px;">We jumped straight from the pastry practicum to the cuisine practicum with a visiting chef who works at <a href="http://www.lecordonbleu.com/lcb-istanbul/en" target="_blank">Le Cordon Bleu in Istanbul</a>. Many of the chefs are taking a three to four-week vacation in August with the rest of Paris, meaning that we will be seeing some new faces around the school. This chef was on the slightly scary side, but I kind of liked him. He would roll his eyes and yell a lot, and he chewed up and spit out one of the younger boys who has trouble controlling his tongue and attitude, but he was very blunt in a helpful sort of way.</span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="line-height: 16.25px;">The miracle in this class occurred when I was one of the first people to finish my plate, but instead of feeling excited I kept wondering what important thing I had forgotten. It apparently came as a shock to other students as well. Luis, who usually finishes first or second, thought I was just getting a plate out and offered to help. I said, "No thanks, I already presented." "You're done?" "Yes." "You already showed the chef?" "Yes." "You mean you presented?" "YES!"</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="line-height: 16.25px;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="line-height: 16.25px;">As it turns out, I remembered everything; however, my fish filleting was terrible, which I already knew right from the start when chef pointed it out. The fillets turned out too tiny and ended up over-baking. The sauce at least was good, but that only prompted a "Too bad" from the chef.</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="line-height: 16.25px;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="line-height: 16.25px;">Turkish chef also pulled us up after class to talk about the cuisine final exam. </span></span><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 16.25px;">Like the pastry final, each student will pull one of ten recipes from a hat to prepare within 2.5 hours. One interesting difference is that we can't present our plate any more than five minutes early - even if we were to finish in two hours we would have to wait 25 minutes to present, which could cause problems in keeping the food warm. We aren't allowed to talk to other students during the exam and we can't ask the supervising chef any questions, nor can we bring any notes with us. To say that I'm a little more concerned about this exam than the pastry one would be an understatement.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 16.25px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 16.25px;">The day ended in a cuisine demonstration with Chef Vaca. It started late because of some confusion over which floor we were supposed to be on, and Vaca, who's usually pretty good-natured, was anything but happy. The translator even came out into the hallway before letting us enter the class to say that we all needed to enter quietly and be on our best behavior. "It's for your own good," she warned. </span><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 16.25px;">The mood lightened up considerably as class got underway, though, and we were treated to some of the tastiest food yet in a cuisine demonstration. </span></span><br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsKuW4sBO1iE4dgOITgW_M9ko8KwSQaZCBWG85BvV5LYHdy1o9yx4IBQpEL3FGpaOqGVnOIynSxXv4djISBlhRtr9NQIcDmhSRY3AfEjL7xlBi8ttn82kGym_A9ecfg84Hesal6rslng/s1600/FridayShrimpDemo3+(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsKuW4sBO1iE4dgOITgW_M9ko8KwSQaZCBWG85BvV5LYHdy1o9yx4IBQpEL3FGpaOqGVnOIynSxXv4djISBlhRtr9NQIcDmhSRY3AfEjL7xlBi8ttn82kGym_A9ecfg84Hesal6rslng/s1600/FridayShrimpDemo3+(2).JPG" height="115" width="400" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Braised veal with croutons and a fried egg;<br />Jumbo fried shrimp; Cherry cake</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />By the time that I arrived back at the apartment it was almost 10:00 PM. Even though my next class wasn't until 12:30 on Saturday, I felt so tired that I set my alarm for 10:00 AM as a precaution and crashed into bed after a quick shower.</span><br />
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<i><u><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Saturday</span></u></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">About 15 minutes before my alarm went off I woke up after having slept almost ten hours. It felt so good. Back at the school we made jumbo fried shrimp, tartar sauce from homemade mayonnaise, and egg soufflé from a demonstration several weeks ago. This practicum was unusually relaxed and even enjoyable, probably because both recipes were fairly simple and we had the little Korean lady as our chef. By the end of class we were just standing around waiting for our soufflés to finish baking as we chatted about different cuisines from our home countries. The Argentinian and Spaniard were expounding the virtues of chipotle peppers which our chef had never heard of. As if the scarcity of pecans weren't bad enough, the French don't understand chipotle??</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Late in the afternoon I met up with Samia, a French lady from my <a href="http://eeb93.net/" target="_blank">church</a> who lives in Saint-Denis, after some confusion over metro stops due to <i>manifestations </i>(unlawful protests) shutting several down. Heavily armed policeman were at ever station and lining the streets, but the Parisians hardly gave them a second glance. She gave me a brief little Paris tour to such places as the Église St Paul and a lot of other spots that I was too tired to remember before we stopped for banana and <a href="http://www.nutellausa.com/" target="_blank">Nutella</a> crepes. Although Samia knows some English, she stuck to French in an effort to help me learn it better. I appreciated the effort, although three hours of listening to and talking in French can be mentally exhausting.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguV9Qw90m_7Ff3a-8HijQmmYYct0QItrUvMdEDjJCI5k3I3lfmv3WiPP2tQeTZcThZMWYbBr21SI_FSxROr0heSw0aJF2Q2y6WqaXMK52c0fQIWbb7KU5ffO-6Al0oMY0Tq0yqQOU2RA/s1600/SatStPaul1+(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguV9Qw90m_7Ff3a-8HijQmmYYct0QItrUvMdEDjJCI5k3I3lfmv3WiPP2tQeTZcThZMWYbBr21SI_FSxROr0heSw0aJF2Q2y6WqaXMK52c0fQIWbb7KU5ffO-6Al0oMY0Tq0yqQOU2RA/s1600/SatStPaul1+(2).JPG" height="262" width="400" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">St Paul</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /><i><u>Sunday</u></i></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">After church I came home and unwittingly took a long nap, a more and more common occurrence these days whenever I sit down. It was, indeed, a day of rest.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I'll end this post by sharing something that struck a chord with me this past week. Often I've heard people say that they don't enjoy reading through the bible or that they don't see the value in it when compared to more selective reading, with I and II Chronicles being two books that they most often site as less important because of the genealogies. But I think that these people are missing some important nuggets of learning hidden in those passages.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Take, for example, something I read in <a href="https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=II+Chronicles+16&version=KJV" target="_blank">II Chronicles 16</a> a few days ago. The story is about a great and godly king in Judah, Asa, who was more zealous for the Lord than many of his forefathers, and the Lord rewarded him richly for his faith. In his later years, however, he forgot the Lord's past faithfulness and deliverance, and his decision to rely on his own wisdom and the king of Syria rather than on the Lord to deliver him from a difficult situation was his downfall. When a prophet points out his error, Asa just gets angry and locks him in prison. Finally, he develops a disease in his feet, but "even in his disease he did not seek the Lord, but sought help from physicians."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">This passage highlighted again for me the the importance of constantly reminding myself of God's faithfulness by reflecting on His word and on my own past experiences. The danger of forgetting happens when we become complacent. It's often gradual, like I'll be on a spiritual "high" for a while, then it gradually fades, and suddenly I look back with some shock and pinpoint dozens of situations where I cut the Lord out entirely from my decisions.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">So going forward this week, I want to remember the Lord's faithfulness. I don't want to bring in the Lord as an afterthought when I've exhausted all other efforts first. I don't want to get stressed or anxious over any situation, regardless of the size. I want every event in my life to be preceded by seeking the Lord's face first so that in every outcome I can recognize His hand.</span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15818532587630238644noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7055176771372598926.post-12136029336228808512014-07-21T11:39:00.002-07:002014-09-08T03:52:50.435-07:00Basic Week FIveThis week I thought that I could start off by sharing some useful words/phrases for anyone considering French culinary school:<br />
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<ul>
<li>"Terroriste": Same meaning as the English word "terrorist" but usually used as a lighthearted insult. For example, at the end of a chaotic practicum, the chef will usually dismiss us with, "Go home, <i>terroristes</i>!" and we all laugh.</li>
<li>"Tok, tok, tok": I can't think of a good English equivalent and I'm not even sure if it's spelled correctly, but the French use "tok" to accompany quick, multi-step actions (but usually done in sets of three). For example, when showing how to frost the sides of a cake, the act of wiping the frosting off of the spatula onto a cake gets one "tok," the act of sliding the spatula down to smooth the frosting gets a second "tok," and the act of wiping the spatula off on the rim of a bowl gets a third "tok."</li>
<li>"Oui, Chef": The equivalent "Yes, Chef," probably also applies in any English-speaking culinary school or fine restaurant, but if your chef ever gives an order or offers advice or says your name or asks a yes/no question, "Oui, Chef" is the only appropriate response. "Yes," "Okay," "Sorry," or simply no response at all is unacceptable. Even "No, Chef," should be avoided, because there's a good chance that you need to make happen whatever is not happening. For example, if chef asks, "Are your refrigerators empty?" you respond with "Oui, Chef!" as you immediately empty out your refrigerator.</li>
<li>"Vite!": "Hurry up!" Yeah, I hear that... a lot.</li>
</ul>
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It's hard to believe that I'm halfway through my semester in Basic Cuisine and Patisserie - I have only four full weeks of classes remaining followed by a partial week of classes and exams, and then I receive my first certificate (assuming that I pass).</div>
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<br /></div>
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Days are often so full of activity that I will find myself in a 6:30 PM pastry practicum recalling some event from an 8:30 AM cuisine practicum but thinking that it happened a day or two prior rather than just that morning, and yet the weeks are flying by. Compare this phenomenon to my days in an office job where I would be asking, "Is it Friday yet?" by Tuesday afternoon. I take this flight of time as a good sign - not that I want time to pass by more quickly, but that I'm no longer staring at the clock or counting down the hours and days until the weekend or my next vacation.</div>
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<i><u>Monday</u></i></div>
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Bastille Day! All of Paris was joyously celebrating as crowds clamored to reserve the best seats for fireworks, with many people arriving seven or more hours in advance. It was also the first holiday of the semester at <a href="http://www.cordonbleu.edu/lcb-paris/en" target="_blank">Le Cordon Bleu</a> and in true old fuddy-duddy fashion, I used my new-found freedom to stay in the studio all day. I haven't been interested in firework shows for the last few years and I haven't been interested in massive crowds... ever. My 8:30 AM class on Tuesday was also a good motivation not to stay up all night.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
My holiday reclusiveness didn't save me from trouble, though, because a very loud and large party lasted in the courtyard below my building from about 7:00 PM until 2:00 AM. Even with my windows closed I could make out the words to every song, and the heavy bass beat had every wall and pane of glass vibrating. At 11:00 PM until midnight when the fireworks began, I was fairly certain that my building was being carpet-bombed, but all that I could see in the patch of sky visible from my terrace were flashes of light similar to heat lightning. But sleep did finally come.</div>
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<i><u>Tuesday</u></i></div>
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<br /></div>
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Each week the school assigns two students from each practical class to be the assistants. The assistants' responsibilities are to arrive in class twenty minutes early, to get the food supplies from the basement kitchen, and (in the case of cuisine) to make sure that each student's work area is set up with a cutting board and any other items that might be needed but that aren't readily accessible in the classroom. This week was my first turn as an assistant in our cuisine group and I was a little terrified - as if I don't risk enough deductions in each practicum evaluation, poor preparation can count against the assistants.<br />
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Neither I nor the other assistant knew how to work the dumb waiter to get the food from the basement kitchen to the classroom, so we fell behind on the setup and consequently on our practicum. As soon as we finished I set to work on trussing a chicken, and in my hurry I poked a hole in my left palm with the chef's knife. Washing my hand and grabbing a band-aid but ignoring the pesky rubber glove, I continued working, immediately poking a hole in my left index finger with the trussing needle. Two band-aids and now a rubber glove later, I moved on to turning the artichoke which I had practiced at home on Saturday. I immediately tore up the knuckles on my right hand with the sharp leaves but decided to hide the bleeding from the chef with a paper towel (chefs frown on bleeding on food).<br />
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Although I was the last person to finish (again) after my series of unfortunate events, Asian chef said that my final product - roasted chicken au jus and turned artichokes with garden-style vegetables - was good (the veggies were a a little too crisp for his liking but for once I got the quantity of seasoning correct).<br />
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That afternoon I returned to the school for a demonstration on meringues led by Chef Tranchant. Meringues are generally just a mixture of egg whites and sugar, but they are quite a popular item in French patisseries. We learned that there are three types - French, Swiss, and Italian - differing primarily by the temperature of the sugar or eggs when whisking. They also serve as a base for many other pastries, often used in cake batters (e.g., German chocolate cake) and buttercream frosting.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJWmrdQGDkEvh4yPLRnQsoBsecrjB786ZlI39Jn_Mp7i72_OkSdfDZjtplYOTnGHnYhFZN8DQX5tlBnlE9oaqTkSxkHTuBDOVL9jxOXl3iqrxV08ndVz-gPhjiC1v2hsuhNb9YtYQ9KA/s1600/Meringue1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJWmrdQGDkEvh4yPLRnQsoBsecrjB786ZlI39Jn_Mp7i72_OkSdfDZjtplYOTnGHnYhFZN8DQX5tlBnlE9oaqTkSxkHTuBDOVL9jxOXl3iqrxV08ndVz-gPhjiC1v2hsuhNb9YtYQ9KA/s1600/Meringue1.JPG" height="233" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Variations of meringues and a Dacquoise cake</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
We had our pastry practicum immediately following the demonstration, where we learned that meringues also require whisking - lots and lots of whisking. Even though I had in the past made meringues at home using an electric hand or stand mixer, I had no idea how hard it would be without those heaven-sent inventions. I at least felt good about my time and organization, and I ended up finishing the cake batter quickly.<br />
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Chef Pascal (formerly Mean Chef) was feeling incredibly generous that evening. He actually praised my cake batter beyond the standard "<i>C'est bien</i>," telling me that it was very nice with a good texture, and then he made some comment to the effect that I should be proud of myself (I think that's what he was trying to convey). It was kind even though it had the undertone of a parent praising his idiot child for not screwing something up ("Kerry - You didn't stick any crayons up your nose today! Good job!").<br />
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The buttercream frosting was also a success, although by now my whisking arm was shot and the heartier, younger students had pulled ahead, leaving me once more straggling in the rear. My piping bag skills had improved even more and I was able to decorate the cake fairly quickly until it came time to make marzipan roses. I cringe whenever the chefs introduce us to a new decorating technique, and combined with the wilting heat in the classroom my flower merited a "Go study some real roses" suggestion from the chef.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEFJAEs3y9jRvMvcOOkwFU8bVFE2WA0Jgjyf6V6cf-ODwgtLuuEDYPzFSn8h9oeUe5jp5SR3vfUvIYYuWOsV2H_mbFKAiRnwwKcD0AcuVOHokDgcvLbnA_dSTgXrqyUK4MoZH-2P0fWQ/s1600/My+Dacquoise.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEFJAEs3y9jRvMvcOOkwFU8bVFE2WA0Jgjyf6V6cf-ODwgtLuuEDYPzFSn8h9oeUe5jp5SR3vfUvIYYuWOsV2H_mbFKAiRnwwKcD0AcuVOHokDgcvLbnA_dSTgXrqyUK4MoZH-2P0fWQ/s1600/My+Dacquoise.JPG" height="272" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My Dacquoise (yes, the white thing is a rose)</td></tr>
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<i><u>Wednesday</u></i><br />
<br />
Chef Caals started our morning with mustard-crusted pork tenderloins, grilled salmon, potatoes, and ice cream with chocolate sauce and Chantilly cream. Although the cuisine courses are growing in intensity, I appreciate the fact that we're starting to do more well-balanced meals (of course ice cream is a part of a well-balanced diet). The addition of side dishes to the leftovers that I bring home is particularly nice (we don't usually make the desserts in our actual cuisine practicum, but I think that I'm covered).<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUfcdLEv2FMx6nXTgQwXFUhIm_wFtRZHObxxcohz2hcHn2KsE1GcpkrLtDZo3hxa_wEsFp7QRdu4aKWFtkjNxCwB9YAd1frUg4lM8Tp37akdKB3va-JJgwYZb6mZPAIpEbWfb43rAQnw/s1600/Salmon2.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUfcdLEv2FMx6nXTgQwXFUhIm_wFtRZHObxxcohz2hcHn2KsE1GcpkrLtDZo3hxa_wEsFp7QRdu4aKWFtkjNxCwB9YAd1frUg4lM8Tp37akdKB3va-JJgwYZb6mZPAIpEbWfb43rAQnw/s1600/Salmon2.JPG" height="176" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
We had an hour lunch break before the cuisine practicum which allowed the other assistant and me plenty of time to prepare for class, and our newly acquired experience with the dumb waiter got us off to a much faster start. It was our first practicum with this chef (I really need to start finding out their names), an older man who had little to say. We were making only the grilled salmon, spinach, and potatoes, but we had two sauces to prepare as well - a lemon-butter sauce for the fish and a mornay sauce for the potatoes - and I was confusing the ingredients between the two as well as what went into the puréed potatoes. Fortunately my error caused me only to double the eggs in the mornay, but as far as I could tell the chef didn't notice.<br />
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What he probably did notice, though, was that I was still cooking my potatoes long after most of the class had already puréed theirs. In demonstration Chef Caals boiled the potatoes whole for 50 minutes, but apparently I was the only person in the class who didn't hear him tell us to cut up our potatoes in practicum for faster cooking. Actually, I thought that he told us just the opposite because they would absorb too much water. I had probably even written somewhere in my copious notes, "Do NOT cut up the potatoes." So when Jade, the girl from the UK, walked by my stove and gasped ominously, "Oh, you didn't cut your potatoes!" only after they were almost finished cooking, the mystery of why I was behind <i>this</i> time became clear (and in case you're wondering why I didn't question the other eight students cutting up their potatoes, it's because I didn't actually witness it - as the assistant I was out of the room getting something that the chef requested).<br />
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To add to the confusion and frenetic chaos of the class, I was sweating profusely with all four of my stove-tops in action along with the grill for the salmon. The weather had also taken a much warmer turn that day from the cooler, milder temperatures during the prior few weeks, and the air conditioning was quickly losing it's cooling abilities. Profuse sweating makes me extremely agitated.<br />
<br />
I managed to catch up to the slower two or three students in the class (there were enough things to keep me occupied while waiting for the potatoes to boil), and Chef of Few Words actually liked my salmon and slow-cooked potatoes with the over-eggy mornay sauce. My sautéed spinach was fine as well, but the lemon-butter sauce was, in his words, "terrible" - too heavy on the lemon and too light on the salt. Most of the rest of the class received a similar critique, though, because we had simply used the amount of lemon juice for which the recipe called. Therein lies the difference between cuisine and pastry - the latter is always precise while the former relies very little on measurement and very much on on the five senses (although I personally liked the lemon flavor on my fish).<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfTelg_Yn8j5e-j12TP62LSVDGD08TTU0AGBhADwOWq-vErvszqtnCmI1y-8p2_aoKMIB6t3JJVen5vzM7ItztWx9hs67G02ETwUA5chtnw23FKBQH87Q732vMxoicw9Q3h5sh-xezPg/s1600/My+Salmon.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfTelg_Yn8j5e-j12TP62LSVDGD08TTU0AGBhADwOWq-vErvszqtnCmI1y-8p2_aoKMIB6t3JJVen5vzM7ItztWx9hs67G02ETwUA5chtnw23FKBQH87Q732vMxoicw9Q3h5sh-xezPg/s1600/My+Salmon.JPG" height="242" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">At least it made for a good lunch!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Despite feeling like I had just been scalded by the steam from a train engine right before it ran over me, I was actually quite excited as I left the practicum at 3:30 PM. Our next class wasn't until Friday morning, and I was mulling over ideas of what I would do with the first non-Bastille Day, non-Sunday day off in almost five weeks. Then, as I passed by a demonstration room to return some items to the basement kitchen, Chef Pascal suddenly popped out of the doorway shouting my name. I turned around, wondering if I had done something wrong, but he was smiling and waving and yelling something unintelligible (i.e., in French) and then asked, "Is better now?" I'll never know what he was talking about, but I was happy to see that we were now "buddies" so I just smiled and waved back and replied, "Oui, Chef! Merci!"<br />
<br />
After chucking every part of my uniform from the socks up to my hat into the wash when I got home, I pulled up <a href="https://www.apple.com/ios/facetime/" target="_blank">FaceTime</a> to chat with my mom. Much to my surprise and joy, my sweet little nephew Declan, who turned four that day, was at my parents' house with my niece Briannah. Wishing him a happy birthday "face to face" and having a delightful conversation with the kids made me feel a bit like crying. If my joy weren't full enough, my Aunt Mary arrived at the house with her two grandsons and two of my sister's boys who were visiting from Georgia. It was only in the last couple of weeks that I figured out that I could still FaceTime with my iPhone as long as I had WiFi, and it was the first conversation with any family besides my parents in over six weeks. Thank the Lord for modern technology!<br />
<br />
That evening I began researching ideas for a day trip, even considering <a href="http://us.disneylandparis.com/index.xhtml" target="_blank">Disneyland Paris,</a> when suddenly I remembered the one thing that my mom and I had talked about wanting to do for years: visit <a href="http://giverny.org/gardens/fcm/visitgb.htm" target="_blank">Claude Monet's home and gardens</a>. A quick search on <a href="https://www.google.com/maps/preview" target="_blank">Google maps</a> showed me that it was only an hour away (for some reason I thought that it was much farther). Even the discomfort of trying to drift off to sleep in a stuffy, hot room that night could do little to dampen my spirits.<br />
<br />
<i><u>Thursday</u></i><br />
<br />
In order to reach Monet's house, my best option was to take the Metro to the Saint-Lazare train station in Paris, buy a ticket to Vernon, and take a bus from Vernon to Giverny. On the bus to Giverny I noticed how charming the landscape was and decided that I would have to ditch the bus on the way back to Vernon and walk the 2.5 miles if I wanted to take in all of it.<br />
<br />
The sun was in full force and the heat wave was on the rise, sitting at around 85 degrees by the time that I got into the hour-long line to the house with very little shade. Tourists were everywhere like swarms of flies, but once I finally made it to the garden it hardly mattered. I had imagined something like the <a href="http://www.biltmore.com/" target="_blank">Biltmore House</a> gardens with vast expanses of neatly arranged flowerbeds, but it was more like a very large yard with random scatterings of flower - dozens and dozens of every kind of flower imaginable in one location. I rushed through it a bit, because it was lacking any shade and I had reached the "profusely sweating" stage.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidd8vVKOqDZBr8jnMbvqnwUIoH_pvuqRioPNR4bDtR6rjCuykq7_zbm46OOAOjxeOy0iSGXPo7wcdbTFxa8a4ntromBf3xXVGF-5Byz0pr-8zMkyGPgXsAhy4buCMKK7lAIx7KjKHSlg/s1600/P7170446.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidd8vVKOqDZBr8jnMbvqnwUIoH_pvuqRioPNR4bDtR6rjCuykq7_zbm46OOAOjxeOy0iSGXPo7wcdbTFxa8a4ntromBf3xXVGF-5Byz0pr-8zMkyGPgXsAhy4buCMKK7lAIx7KjKHSlg/s1600/P7170446.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Monet's Garden from an upstairs house window</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Following the signs to the Lily Pond, though, I came upon what is the most breathtaking part of the estate. Little bridges and walkways led around a narrow stream to a Japanese bridge facing a vast pond covered in pink and white-flowered lily pads and shaded by giant weeping willow trees. Monet created a collection of around 250 paintings of this pond in his lifetime, and many other artists have also attempted to capture its beauty. I felt a little nostalgic and teary-eyed wishing that my mom were standing next to me. Such experiences are always better shared, particularly with someone who could appreciate it as much (if not more) than me.<br />
<br />
Upon entering the pathway to the Lily Pond I had to laugh, though. An American woman in front of me was exclaiming to her husband how they were standing on a famous bridge depicted in hundreds of paintings while he was snapping photos... except that it was only a little unassuming footbridge near the entrance before the pond actually became visible. I'm sure that they eventually figured it out.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq_qdWmLODSmNQQ4YiYE6KrBrOBLEkCm7noD-w-LJoGcz2jJPsY-F51RODzPPhQBzlFP8Kva0Uvtr3ROtx3XdAMNa7QbjlMxnp0qnlhurmkTE5mnHPwwKxYa3n77s6MRuoDcueAreToQ/s1600/P7170413.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq_qdWmLODSmNQQ4YiYE6KrBrOBLEkCm7noD-w-LJoGcz2jJPsY-F51RODzPPhQBzlFP8Kva0Uvtr3ROtx3XdAMNa7QbjlMxnp0qnlhurmkTE5mnHPwwKxYa3n77s6MRuoDcueAreToQ/s1600/P7170413.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lily Pond and THE famous bridge</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6GbHXZslYfgKresQIR12cdfbADxUan4F6__9SjTxxyZ9JiFaoH00iPKyJxdzTRxAr1hwhUjyNhitR8GMB1vKqRtrs7ETiRQdSeNlRwzBx5z075710CPdO2-vmoUzqvpF65gAALpsZcQ/s1600/P7170433.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6GbHXZslYfgKresQIR12cdfbADxUan4F6__9SjTxxyZ9JiFaoH00iPKyJxdzTRxAr1hwhUjyNhitR8GMB1vKqRtrs7ETiRQdSeNlRwzBx5z075710CPdO2-vmoUzqvpF65gAALpsZcQ/s1600/P7170433.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">More painting subjects </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Monet's house was, of course, crowded and hot, so I did a quick run-through, taking in the brightly-painted rooms and the bizarre wall-to-wall collections of Japanese (mostly Geisha girl) drawings. From there I exited to the gift shop, grabbed up a few souvenirs and postcards, and headed to the Impressionism museum just a short distance down the road. I took my time wandering from room to room, enjoying the art and most importantly, the air conditioning. Only one of Monet's paintings is contained in this museum, but its lower level features a collection of paintings of his garden and lily pond as portrayed by other artists.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The time had come to begin my trek back towards Vernon. From reading the website about Monet's house I knew that there was a pedestrian-friendly route back; I just hadn't bothered to find it. My <a href="https://buy.garmin.com/en-US/US/on-the-trail/handhelds/dakota-20/prod30926.html" target="_blank">Garmin</a> was set to pedestrian mode, though, and the journey started out okay. I stopped occasionally to snap some photos of Monet's burial site as well as some charming little French homes and hotels along the way. Soon, though, rue Claude Monet ended and I found myself on a highway of sorts - nothing resembling a pedestrian path - with my diabolical Garmin instructing me to continue walking two more miles. So I did.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The shoulder of the road that I was walking on was knee-high with weeds and bordered by acres of farmland, separated by a large ditch. My one little bottle of water that I had been carrying all day was almost dry (I was desperately trying to conserve it like a person staggering across the desert with only one canteen) and I dropped my flimsy bag of souvenirs at one point, scattering postcards down the ditch incline.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
My relief upon seeing some houses and gravelly walkways crop up on the other side of the road was lessened when one of the residents pulled up in front of his home and started asking me something that I couldn't quite understand, so I smiled and said, "Non." His reply was something to the effect of, "But my house is right here," as he swept out his arm towards it in a welcoming gesture, which made me think that he was either inviting me inside or offering me water. As tempted as I was to find out if it was the latter, self-preservation made me reply with, "I don't speak French." He simply snapped his fingers in the universal "too bad" motion and went inside.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
During this awkward conversation I noticed bicycles passing behind his house on some pathway through the trees, and a little farther up the road I finally found an entrance to this path - the non-auto road that I should have been walking. I finished the journey back to Vernon, stopping at a little shop to get an ice cream cone and resisting the urge to rub it all over my face. Proceeding to the station, I boarded the train and struggled to stay awake for the 45-minute ride to Paris.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMExXadzawStkyumRpof2FAMVSNoxb1IWLDSKZet4IldRscSIkyAgMO_VXJJz3mmH3xSun-nVdbDxwR2xQsRIvijC9cf5BwNsdFM_P1oayb2SfrQe9vBAqxhrLx8iwnbRr97_ZSDdxaQ/s1600/P7170490.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMExXadzawStkyumRpof2FAMVSNoxb1IWLDSKZet4IldRscSIkyAgMO_VXJJz3mmH3xSun-nVdbDxwR2xQsRIvijC9cf5BwNsdFM_P1oayb2SfrQe9vBAqxhrLx8iwnbRr97_ZSDdxaQ/s1600/P7170490.JPG" height="222" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ancient bridge and house in Vernon</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Unable to face another night of sleeping in the heat, I stopped off at <a href="http://www.monoprix.fr/" target="_blank">Monoprix</a> to buy a table fan for the studio which was about 85 degrees inside by the time that I arrived home. Much to my chagrin, the fan was broken when I opened the box to assemble it and I spent another uncomfortable evening trying to make as little contact between my skin and the bed as possible, but my exhaustion eventually won out over the discomfort.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<i><u>Friday</u></i></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The day's forecast called for temperatures in the low- to mid-nineties, but we were at least spared any practicums - the day held only pastry and cuisine demonstrations. Chef Pascal made the famous French Moka, a coffee-flavored cake that would again require a lot of hand-whipping for both the batter and the buttercream frosting in addition to some serious decorating skills, but it was not a complex cake.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiJRMaEvBdvscOxGk_MExRbc_qmSsPiA0Tulqzqy2RrLHfu2t0Mpo0RhL5lkgpGHuDhqUKxRHZJMoOYVPHnUXVfx0Fa8c7vJ3cIv0i614Si4nvj_R4vx0nIOnhMQ3iwD51mpuh4TZ51w/s1600/Moka1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiJRMaEvBdvscOxGk_MExRbc_qmSsPiA0Tulqzqy2RrLHfu2t0Mpo0RhL5lkgpGHuDhqUKxRHZJMoOYVPHnUXVfx0Fa8c7vJ3cIv0i614Si4nvj_R4vx0nIOnhMQ3iwD51mpuh4TZ51w/s1600/Moka1.JPG" height="360" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Chef Pascal's Mokas - the man has skills</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I used the four-hour break between the morning and afternoon demonstrations to exchange the fan. Even more than then irritation of walking the big, bulky box the quarter-mile between my studio and Monoprix in the blazing heat and humidity was the fear that they wouldn't allow me to return or exchange it and I wouldn't have the ability to intelligently debate them <i>en français</i>. Much to my surprise, the sales clerk was unusually nice about it and I soon had a new big, bulky box with a fan to lug back home.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
That afternoon we had our first lesson on forcemeat stuffing. Chef Poupard made some fabulous paupiettes (veal rolls stuffed with forcemeat) with baby onions and turned carrots, and he began a foie gras terrine (although after hearing the explanation of how foie gras is made, I think that I might now be morally opposed to it). Chef Poupard is known as the "Map Chef" because he likes to talk about where all French food originated, often pulling out a map as a visual aid.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1nQdGOsc9osbm3gfyfVmsHiPWPeMH210PscH1XILOi0dgMuLhKfDxsckfVFO7pBd50ptWrA1ofswIy2A-v4I7cy1XtqGb4P2E5oV-AagICBFVPfWemq2pNzHmXJ3pvITjPOyJ6Hp0cg/s1600/Veal1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1nQdGOsc9osbm3gfyfVmsHiPWPeMH210PscH1XILOi0dgMuLhKfDxsckfVFO7pBd50ptWrA1ofswIy2A-v4I7cy1XtqGb4P2E5oV-AagICBFVPfWemq2pNzHmXJ3pvITjPOyJ6Hp0cg/s1600/Veal1.JPG" height="291" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Paupiettes with glazed onions and turned carrots</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div>
<i><u>Saturday</u></i></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
We had our first female chef in practicum Saturday morning - a Korean woman whose diminutive size and youthful appearance didn't make her any less tough than her male peers. She was very helpful, though - I burned my finger badly on the oven and she made me stop to put cream on it after running it under cold water for two minutes, and when I returned to my station she was peeling all of my baby onions for me. She did not, unfortunately, turn my carrots. I'd like to blame my blistered middle finger for the woeful job that I did turning them, but the more likely explanation is that I had no idea what I was doing. Rather than having the "barrel" shape when I finished, they kind of looked like I had just gnawed them down to size. On my way home for my break before the 3:30 PM class, I stopped off at the epicerie and bought a lot of carrots in preparation for some weekend fun.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxOaciLuP8JQWnVMRo-D5ONatdkRvfs4H3Cqizr3z5Gb3-na7p-daecRYbA692GXVOZa7ey-hd4wJxDixbr7P2z_NB41dfqc9a9nkjPYkHNH1qUskHWz1yu17-8YnDBpGnbVg8ENfQUw/s1600/My+Veal.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxOaciLuP8JQWnVMRo-D5ONatdkRvfs4H3Cqizr3z5Gb3-na7p-daecRYbA692GXVOZa7ey-hd4wJxDixbr7P2z_NB41dfqc9a9nkjPYkHNH1qUskHWz1yu17-8YnDBpGnbVg8ENfQUw/s1600/My+Veal.JPG" height="254" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Good paupiettes, bad carrots</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
For the afternoon cuisine demonstration, Chef Bogen was finishing the foie gras terrine from Friday in addition to making forcemeat-stuffed chicken breasts and turned mushrooms. My feelings for turned vegetables are at least shared - when chef mentioned the word "turned," a collective groan went up from the room. So much work just for appearance...</div>
<div>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaTQi8ZZcI7j_IFbdxO_BanLaeonl2CDI3ovn9KEz8CEniT4jl4naIrRTHR1ulH8UtMxqdBFDZOZHfiigEU04sC8QaR0fNmrwviJRhOCOzEcsZMcXcCC7k0GsQbKvjPhLYbSQKsGEgrQ/s1600/Terrine1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaTQi8ZZcI7j_IFbdxO_BanLaeonl2CDI3ovn9KEz8CEniT4jl4naIrRTHR1ulH8UtMxqdBFDZOZHfiigEU04sC8QaR0fNmrwviJRhOCOzEcsZMcXcCC7k0GsQbKvjPhLYbSQKsGEgrQ/s1600/Terrine1.JPG" height="128" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Forcemeat stuffed chicken with turned mushrooms; Foie gras</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
<div>
Before class began, the translator made a PSA that all translators would be cracking down on talking in class from that point forward - the first person talking would be sent out of the room for five minutes, and anyone talking after that would be dismissed from the rest of the class period. It seemed an effective warning at first, but the Brazilians were soon chatting away with no reprimand except from the group of girls who sit together up front and say, "Shh!" a lot.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
A student from Jordan approached the translator and asked if he could keep his phone out during class to take any calls from his family due to the ongoing Middle East crisis. The translator asked the chef who simply replied, "No," and then the chef and translator began a sort of debate. Turning back to the student, the translator said, "Chef says he's sorry, but you need to put your phone away. What you are doing here is more important." Walking back to his seat, the student called out loudly over his shoulder, "Okay, but I don't agree with the chef!" Oh, boy...</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Chef Bogen launched into a speech about being adults and learning self-discipline and about how we need to focus on what we're studying - to concentrate on why we're at the school and not on things that we can't do anything about. We received the "Oui, Chef" reminder again and a warning never, ever, under any circumstance, to contradict or talk back to a chef either at the school or in any future career. Twenty minutes later he began our demonstration. At first it sounded harsh, but he made sense to me even though I'm not sure that his lecture clicked in the minds of the younger students who needed to hear it the most.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
We finished late and the Grand Diplome group rushed off to our pastry practicum to join the other students who had already started their Mokas. I whipped up my cake batter rather quickly and started on my buttercream frosting. Apart from the flavoring, it was identical to the frosting for the Dacquoise which I had managed quite well, but something went terribly wrong this evening.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Chef Mahut often insists on checking certain stages of our recipes before allowing us to proceed to the next step, and in this instance he wanted to check our frosting before we added the butter and then again before we frosted our cakes. He gave me the go-ahead for the butter and I whisked my arm off until the frosting appeared to be a good consistency, but Mahut stopped me short of frosting the cake. He worked with the frosting for a while, and when I asked what the problem was he said, "I don't know." He handed it back to me and said to whisk it over an ice bath again. By the time that he came back to my station, everyone else was halfway through icing their cakes and he allowed me to begin mine. The frosting wouldn't firm up, though, making it impossible to smooth the surface. By now students were starting their piping decorations, but chef stuck my cake in the freezer and told me to whisk my frosting again on an ice bath.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The end of class was fast approaching and chef was throwing out warnings about giving everyone who was late a zero. I'm not sure if that included me, but I finally began my piping decorations with frosting that had the consistency of softened butter. When it came time to have him evaluate my cake, Chef Stater of the Obvious simply said, "If this were the final exam, that frosting would have made you fail." Good to know.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Boxing up my sad cake, I began my trudge down the stairs when my greasy-bottomed shoes slipped out from under me and I took the next four or five steps down on my rear while my cake box tumbled to the bottom, noisily bouncing across every step on the way. Fortunately, about four students were behind me to witness the humiliation and offer up, "Are you okay?" as I brushed off my bruised tailbone and picked up the blasted Moka which at least had the grace to stay contained in the box through the entire ordeal. To console myself I went home and had a 10:00 PM dinner consisting only of the rest of the Dacquoise cake and a big blob of Moka.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibCAXsNIM3gKxdDaO0CVyNHz33RfHMRM5cIFv4qh60AirVDVXCN4LJ-HrY389FWwhbY8UMvgk2_9jmrKY0AuvmK4PBpsBAl2jChE3Rnnq_f6a8Ql63Z90qk5E3QTE2pNsBV2_ndbZqFg/s1600/My+Moka1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibCAXsNIM3gKxdDaO0CVyNHz33RfHMRM5cIFv4qh60AirVDVXCN4LJ-HrY389FWwhbY8UMvgk2_9jmrKY0AuvmK4PBpsBAl2jChE3Rnnq_f6a8Ql63Z90qk5E3QTE2pNsBV2_ndbZqFg/s1600/My+Moka1.JPG" height="162" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Before and after the fall</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<i><u>Sunday</u></i></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
A youth group from <a href="http://www.fbcweb.net/" target="_blank">Friendship Baptist Church</a> in Raleigh, NC visited the church that morning and their leader delivered the sermon in English with a French translator. As the pastor stated, "We're getting all of the Carolinas here!" (Foreigners have trouble differentiating between North Carolina and South Carolina. I try not to get offended.)</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
After church I came home and spent a good portion of my afternoon turning carrots and practicing paper cornets. Though still not perfect, it began to feel at least a little more natural. I wanted to turn some mushrooms as well, but of course no stores that sell mushrooms were open anywhere near me. The weather had cooled considerably, though - into the low 70's - and I was able to unwind from a rather hectic week without even turning on my new fan.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj72Pd6szmDHBy4Dvp8-_vgnmBwH-2rlNMUmK2NOHg8Vi80mgc_-m4Ru01f1idFJyhdvGnzKBPT4jAP0B0SWbLnHVKqyMDlAOgYzI7ob46FrCvF5LDbs8a4SBFHBb6imO4GJjBFMQz36g/s1600/Practice.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj72Pd6szmDHBy4Dvp8-_vgnmBwH-2rlNMUmK2NOHg8Vi80mgc_-m4Ru01f1idFJyhdvGnzKBPT4jAP0B0SWbLnHVKqyMDlAOgYzI7ob46FrCvF5LDbs8a4SBFHBb6imO4GJjBFMQz36g/s1600/Practice.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Practice makes perfect... I hope.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div>
I'm not going to lie - things will be heating up next week at school with 42 hours of classes and what I believe is a mid-semester advisory meeting, and I'm just a little concerned about my progress or lack thereof. Sometimes I wish that I could have a one-on-one personal trainer who would just spend a few days intensely developing my weak areas, a sort chef version of <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0087538/" target="_blank">Mr. Miyagi</a> (and no, that would not be the equivalent of Arnold from <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0070992/" target="_blank">Happy Days</a>). For now, though, I'm going to find some mushrooms.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15818532587630238644noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7055176771372598926.post-32003253366218798822014-07-14T10:32:00.000-07:002014-09-08T03:53:06.979-07:00Basic Week FourIt's another cold and rainy Sunday afternoon here in Paris. I enjoy Sunday afternoons in this city, though - it sort of forces people to take a day of rest because apart from restaurants, almost all businesses are closed. The streets are quieter in the less-touristy areas such as mine, particularly when I'm boarding the Metro to head to church at 9:30 AM, and I can read in peace for the half-hour ride to Saint-Denis... except between the stops where a "musician" decides to hop the train. At least the one today was singing a cappella rather than hauling an accordion, loud speakers, and a CD Walkman with him.<br />
<br />
I learned a few new things about this city as well this week.<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>Grilling is forbidden by law. That made me a little sad because I had high hopes of getting a little grill for the terrace. Actually, all fires in Paris are forbidden, even in homes with functioning fireplaces. Something about fires potentially destroying the city and killing hundreds, blah, blah, blah...</li>
<li>If you serve a meat with sauce in France, the sauce can go either on the plate first with the meat on top, or it can be served on the side. Sauce is not allowed to be served on top of the meat... again by law (I assume that they don't monitor this practice in homes, though).</li>
<li>Paris residents are required to clean up after their dogs, but nobody does it, or at least I've witnessed it happening only twice.</li>
</ul>
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><u>Monday<o:p></o:p></u></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The week began with a 12:30 AM patisserie demonstration led
by the formidable Chef Quéré who shall henceforth be called Chef Pascal,
because that is how he is better known (also formerly referred to as “the mean
one”). He was working on choux pastries
again, this time delving into the world of such heavenly creations as éclairs and
cream puffs.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggHSaJyDNsJhdumbicTLxqfm51HApkCrBqIv527OK0rBGjlWw6aLZqBeuBQQr01QNYrDpfOTH5D0_dm80jtNib5A1TcQgPQtnM3Wz2iI95ka4tchQoT5QgvV4U1nV84PrRzZTCbjFXpA/s1600/photo+1+(6).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggHSaJyDNsJhdumbicTLxqfm51HApkCrBqIv527OK0rBGjlWw6aLZqBeuBQQr01QNYrDpfOTH5D0_dm80jtNib5A1TcQgPQtnM3Wz2iI95ka4tchQoT5QgvV4U1nV84PrRzZTCbjFXpA/s1600/photo+1+(6).jpg" height="140" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The many faces of choux pastries: Salambos, cream puffs, acorns, éclairs, and chouquettes</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Pascal was in rare form that day, or maybe it’s his regular
form and the angry chef that we witnessed on our first day with him was just
his special way of laying down the law… or he’s schizophrenic. Whatever the reason, he was teasing the
translator and cracking jokes while former students and chefs sporadically
dropped into the demonstration simply to give him a handshake or hug and yuck
it up in French, like one of their weird variety shows. I began to think that if so many people like
him then he might not be half as bad as we initially thought.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
From that class we moved into Chef Bogen’s demonstration on
soups, focusing on cream soups, veloutés, bisques, and consommé. It was a roller-coaster ride of techniques
that left a good majority of the class walking out with a “What just happened?”
expression and a few choice words. Chef
had four different preparations going at once and at one point I counted about
ten pots on the stove. He’d jump from
describing cuts of beef to preparing a chicken to cooking crabs to cutting
vegetables (each soup had its own cut) to proper consistency. Keeping up with which step went with which
recipe became almost impossible, but questions ceased when he answered one
student with, “I already answered that.
Only good questions, please!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNzUijbEXSeiCcHaUjecTPcFxeY6AfGh7ciw8hAVNkWqkY788DzFWOleJ4PExUASseQ0WN_3o9WT-bpEhwjC3gJKl6c0-VqYY-jgCM4FjMaAxXiffCRVHq7Y9mRiVm9j20p81pvzHamA/s1600/photo+1+(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNzUijbEXSeiCcHaUjecTPcFxeY6AfGh7ciw8hAVNkWqkY788DzFWOleJ4PExUASseQ0WN_3o9WT-bpEhwjC3gJKl6c0-VqYY-jgCM4FjMaAxXiffCRVHq7Y9mRiVm9j20p81pvzHamA/s1600/photo+1+(2).JPG" height="142" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Asparagus velouté, cream of cauliflower soup, and crab bisque</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><u>Tuesday<o:p></o:p></u></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Walking into the cuisine practicum Tuesday morning we were
greeted by Chef Caals (or as one of my classmates calls him, “the fit one” –
the one every girl has a crush on) who told us to commence with our puff pastry
dough, and then he left the room. In an
unusual turn of events, I was the only student not taken off guard. I had actually noticed that we would be
making the dough again in class even though it wasn’t covered in the last
demonstration, and I brought the recipe from Lesson 5 along with the soup
recipe. Much to everyone’s relief, chef
remained out of the room while I managed to shout ingredients and instructions
to the rest of the group. Our doughs
were completed by the time that he returned.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Our next task was to prepare the crab bisque; thus began the
horror. I enjoy most shellfish as long
as it’s been removed from the shell and prepared in some unrecognizable form
from when it was alive, so while after the demo I had come to terms with the
fact that we would have to chop up some crabs, the cry from one girl of
“They’re alive!” froze me in my tracks.
Sure enough, the large pile of crabs before us was moving, and Caals was
yelling, “Hurry up and divide the crabs among seven people! Use them all!
Vite! Vite!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
While the rest of us stood aside grimacing, one brave
student grabbed seven bowls and boldly stepped forward to begin plucking out
the crabs, quickly withdrawing his hand with an “Ouch!” each time one would
pinch his fingers. In another unusual
moment of clarity, I grabbed two large slotted spoons and handing one to him,
we began to scoop them out, counting about ten crabs per person.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In demonstration, Bogen had quickly chopped each crab into
four parts, telling us that we would be doing the same in practicum although
seasoned chefs used faster methods.
Watching the braver students hacking their crabs to death made me a
little nauseated, but Caals stopped us short and said to use the faster method
and put them in the heated oil whole.
While I was relieved that now I wouldn’t have to touch any of them,
watching them slowly fry to death was equally disturbing, so I frantically kept
stirring the pot to move the living crabs on top down to the bottom and speed up
their death, whispering, "I'm sorry!" with each turn.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After all of the crabs appeared to be dead and were nicely
“risoled” (red), we took wooden rolling pins and began violently to smash the
crabs in order to release the meat. My
uniform was spattered and I could feel pieces of crab hitting me in the face, but it
finally ended and I was able to add the vegetables and cover up the carnage in
liquid before bringing it to a boil.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The frustrating part of this demonstration was that I
actually felt ahead of the game, or at least I was keeping up with my
classmates up to this point, but as my soup completed its 40 minutes of
simmering I noticed that everyone else had already strained and reduced theirs,
and soon Caals was tapping his watch-less wrist shouting, “Hurry up, Kerry!” I rushed through the last preparations, not
allowing it to reduce as much as it should because Caals told us to stop. When he tested my bisque he said, “Not enough
crab flavor – you probably didn’t risoler the crabs long enough. And you need to watch the time.” I didn’t point out that it was still half an
hour before the “official” end of class, nor did I sneak in a remark about
being the only student who came prepared for the puff pastry dough.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We had about four hours to kill before our pastry practicum,
so I went home to clean the crab off of my face and unwind from the morning’s
trauma, recognizing that it could have been worse and most likely will be
eventually (the stories about rabbit preparation have already begun). When I returned at 3:30 PM we had our first
practicum with Chef Mahut. He’s another
good chef for the slow ones among us because he prefers to work together on
each stage. Unfortunately, his English
is also very limited. He insisted that
we measure out our choux pastry ingredients and then wait for him to make a
batch before we began ours, an instruction that got lost in translation on a few
students and resulted in a somewhat irate chef.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To make matters worse, because I was standing next to Mahut
he asked me to measure out his ingredients along with mine, although I
misunderstood his instructions and measured out only mine. God bless my classmates – after he pointed
out my error and said that I had five minutes to get his ingredients, three of
the girls close by began measuring things out for me and we finished well within his time frame.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My biggest hurdle in the pastry classes has been mastering
the piping bags. Besides a severe lack
of artistic skill, my coordination is terrible (although the two are probably
related) – it’s the reason that I was always a benchwarmer in sports and
eventually quit participating. Each
baking sheet was to be shared by two students, and I ended up with Chris, a
super-nice Japanese kid who, after watching me try to pipe my éclairs before
scraping them back off the sheet and starting over, showed me how to hold the
bag. Then showed me again. Then again. Around the third time it finally
clicked, and if I ever succeed in a patisserie career I will forever accredit
it to that boy.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As the éclairs baked we piped our chouquettes, a much easier
task with my new-found mastery, then whipped up the chocolate cream to fill the
éclairs. The last step was to dip them
in chocolate fondant. I missed the part
where we were supposed to stir the fondant quickly between each dip to remove
the top film, so the only éclair that turned out pretty was the one that chef
did for me after he watched me struggle through the first five.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv_C0fyLQorxvNmFHfnQNHsmpAaxJWWCdz5k3EgtGBGGMVva5RgvREu0zh0ZfQ6zGNNlLIO4Y5zJHI9a7D3TWhw16zqRe2J_txSiuMuI5bTnas8Gr3s7ayxkmVl-J_G-39JM50oBy0-Q/s1600/photo+3+(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv_C0fyLQorxvNmFHfnQNHsmpAaxJWWCdz5k3EgtGBGGMVva5RgvREu0zh0ZfQ6zGNNlLIO4Y5zJHI9a7D3TWhw16zqRe2J_txSiuMuI5bTnas8Gr3s7ayxkmVl-J_G-39JM50oBy0-Q/s1600/photo+3+(2).JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My sad éclairs and okay chouquettes</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At some point in the middle of class I also “lost” my
plastic scraper which meant that I had to buy another one from the school. In truth, someone took my scraper, a frequent
problem even in small classes if you don’t keep tabs on all of your items or
label them well (I had to buy new magnets the week before). Overall, though, I
really like my classmates and we’re forming a good bond, not the “I like you so
I’ll kill you last” kind of bond but the kind where we’re quick to help each
other out and offer words of encouragement or praise.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><u>Wednesday<o:p></o:p></u></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I had the glorious privilege of sleeping in on Wednesday
because the first patisserie demonstration didn’t begin until 12:30 PM,
although a nine-hour block of classes awaited me. Chef Tranchant showed us petits-fours
meringues and biscuits (or as we in America call them, cookies). My fear over piped pastries had greatly
decreased over the last 24 hours and I was actually looking forward to the
prospect of making them.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0cumV0J3ohlA4oHdhiwzWnSfoMsHZvOFayE-D3UwDwVZEkMm9qUmnVkiXu1QFUCq8Xb6HluxNaOBMssUEdLxHODhfzQ8-5xu3IvdEdai_vfS5gC2vrhhZP6F1j844-FQRqbJz7e2h7A/s1600/photo+2+(14).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0cumV0J3ohlA4oHdhiwzWnSfoMsHZvOFayE-D3UwDwVZEkMm9qUmnVkiXu1QFUCq8Xb6HluxNaOBMssUEdLxHODhfzQ8-5xu3IvdEdai_vfS5gC2vrhhZP6F1j844-FQRqbJz7e2h7A/s1600/photo+2+(14).JPG" height="116" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Macarons, raisin biscuits, "cigarettes," and Marshal's batons</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
From there we went to a cuisine demonstration with Chef
Lesourd, a funny and friendly little man that bares an amazing resemblance to
<a href="http://www.mrbean.com/" target="_blank">Mr. Bean</a>. Although it was my first class
with him, I recognized him from practicums where he would pop into class and
walk around the room, asking students from where they came or making little
jokes about what they were doing. He
kept the atmosphere lively as he showed us how to make a Marseillaise fish soup
and clarify the consommé from Monday’s demonstration for use in such wonderful
things as French onion soup. His
demonstration was less tense and much easier to follow than Bogen’s, but I was
grateful to know that we wouldn’t be making the fish soup in our practicum. It involved too much familiarity with several
kinds of fish, and although not as intimidating live crabs, I decided that
tasting eel was preferable to cutting it up.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjChpD2uN4nnfuot68VSPn-TDAWEMZb22rpwf_pG37SBPBqnD7cOXqfUFKcvek_ByulbIVUGK2mlQTfQQTLhTL35G7gmI-SZaW-eV2GVYYJB4-WWlSiVgTbqEttUAuG4L426Dgvp2Ev0w/s1600/photo+1+(3).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjChpD2uN4nnfuot68VSPn-TDAWEMZb22rpwf_pG37SBPBqnD7cOXqfUFKcvek_ByulbIVUGK2mlQTfQQTLhTL35G7gmI-SZaW-eV2GVYYJB4-WWlSiVgTbqEttUAuG4L426Dgvp2Ev0w/s1600/photo+1+(3).JPG" height="126" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Consommé with vegetable brunoise, French onion soup, and Fish soup</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We went straight from the demonstration to the practicum
with the Filipino-looking chef (I’ll just refer to him as Chef Phil until I can
figure out his real name). I wasn’t sure
what I thought about Chef Phil up to this point because I had very little
interaction with him during our egg poaching practicum – mostly the
chef-in-training had helped me. He’s
extremely quiet and reserved and unwilling to do demonstration classes because
he doesn’t like standing in front of a room full of students. By the end of class, though, I decided that I
liked him. He didn’t try to make us
laugh, but it was kind of nice being able to make him laugh occasionally, and
once the boys got him talking about the <a href="http://www.fifa.com/worldcup/index.html" target="_blank">World Cup</a> he almost became animated.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We finished our puff pastry dough from Tuesday morning in
order to make cheese straws with them at the end of class, then went to work on the consommé
clarification. Although the brunoise cut
of my vegetables was too big and they weren’t cooked quite well enough, I
finished in a timely manner and we were able to get out shortly before 9:00 PM.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Boxing up my consommé to take home and freeze for some
possible future use (or for the garbage when I move out) and wrapping up the
cheese straws because I didn't think to bring another container for them, I
went outside to be greeted by cold rain and wind. My purse was strapped across my shoulder, I
had a bag of dirty uniform parts and my umbrella on one arm, and in the other arm I
carried my loosely wrapped pile of cheese straws atop a giant box of hot
consommé. The walk home is about 15
minutes, and about five minutes into it I began to notice cheese straws
slipping loose from the foil as I kept shifting the box of consommé into a more
“comfortable” position. By the time I
got home I had a very happy trail of pigeons following me.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhB1U_YCg1P8Vwi6EYNKjyRgATl10tpV0woASSpyVvLvv_mpPzgSaPC-mvoR9jqlLmglnZzhGFAQqNf4FL5u7uLEi-usuyrspZY-PSOKJ12bmv63Ye83Z6syMlyah8bLjeaX7TJfNizZQ/s1600/photo+3+(5).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhB1U_YCg1P8Vwi6EYNKjyRgATl10tpV0woASSpyVvLvv_mpPzgSaPC-mvoR9jqlLmglnZzhGFAQqNf4FL5u7uLEi-usuyrspZY-PSOKJ12bmv63Ye83Z6syMlyah8bLjeaX7TJfNizZQ/s1600/photo+3+(5).JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Feed the birds. Tuppence a bag..."</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><u>Thursday<o:p></o:p></u></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Although he seemed to have lightened up a little, the
appearance of Chef Pascal in our 8:30 AM patisserie practicum still brought
slight groans and nervous glances among the students. We cranked out our raisin biscuits and
Marshal’s batons with very little yelling though, and even the students who had
to start the meringue batter over for the latter because they over-beat their
ingredients were treated fairly respectably.
I got another <i>c’est bien</i> on my
work and we were done with the school day by 10:30 AM.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The school had scheduled a student party for that evening at
a place called the <a href="http://www.janeclub.fr/fr" target="_blank">Jane Club</a>, but for one thing I’m not a “clubber” and for
another thing, even if it had been anywhere else, the prospect of having to
wash and fix my hair that afternoon and change into something dressy for a
cold, rainy evening sucked out any vestige of desire in me. Yes, I am <i>that</i>
pathetic.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Instead I picked up some Chinese food from a place that I passed daily and that caused me to stare wistfully in the windows as I breathed
in the aromas. The egg rolls were good
as was the rice, but the chicken left much to be desired (read about Friday to find out why). Then I spent most of the rest of the day
trying to fix an issue with an application that I had installed to allow me to
access American websites where I could finally do such things as listen to <a href="http://www.pandora.com/" target="_blank">Pandora</a>
or watch shows like <i><a href="http://www.pbs.org/wgbh/masterpiece/programs/endeavour/" target="_blank">Endeavour</a></i> or <i><a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0077031/?ref_=nv_sr_4" target="_blank">The Incredible Hulk</a></i> (circa 1978 – I had
almost forgotten how bad the special effects were).<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
[<i>The American shows
part is important only because I started back on <a href="http://t-tapp.com/" target="_blank">T-Tapp</a> exercises, which are
sustainable only if I have something to keep from dying of boredom in the
process.</i>]<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><u>Friday<o:p></o:p></u></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I had been looking forward to this day ever since we got our
school schedule four weeks ago. There
weren’t any classes, but instead the morning began with a market tour led by
Chef Poupard and his translator. Poupard
took us to some of his favorite locations, telling us to be sure that we
greeted each shop owner with “Bonjour,” that we keep a smile on our face, and
that we never touch anything. The
“Bonjour” I knew about and the "no touching" was a given, but the smile was a new concept. He explained that Paris isn’t known for
hospitality, but he thinks that cordiality should be universal. I like Poupard.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We arrived at the boucherie first just as they were opening
and had a quick lesson on how to identify good butchers and cuts of meat. Next came the fromagerie, where my piping bag
hero, Chris, stood back with his nose pinched and declared that he hated all
cheese (watching the Asians react to cheese and sweets is often entertaining),
so chef purchased a large quantity of several types of cheese and made Chris carry the
bag.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmMsLioWritICR74m3XV3kcnj6CGDqnOFwpItsvNdXADhBFdJtobd6XqlwIdvr7nu35Z1SXXyZcwFHx1IUDUdd_7sXBjKs29WxNqF0KqPK7objVCHbvmbYecYceJMGPPJWhtGLYXgVaA/s1600/Charcuterie.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmMsLioWritICR74m3XV3kcnj6CGDqnOFwpItsvNdXADhBFdJtobd6XqlwIdvr7nu35Z1SXXyZcwFHx1IUDUdd_7sXBjKs29WxNqF0KqPK7objVCHbvmbYecYceJMGPPJWhtGLYXgVaA/s1600/Charcuterie.JPG" height="95" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Charcuterie, poissonerie, and fromagerie</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The poissonerie that chef chose was an outdoor stand with
more types of fish than I ever realized existed (at least for eating), all
displayed neatly across mounds of ice.
Poupard gave us the fish quality test – clear eyes, red gills, and a
non-fishy smell are three signs of a good fish.
He purchased some ready-to-eat shrimp and prawns before we proceeded to
the charcuterie which carried all sorts of questionable animal parts, the
boulangerie where chef bought several types of bread including an amazing brioche and a cheese bread, a goat cheese stand for more cheese, a patisserie,
a vegetable stand where we purchased nothing (of course), and finally back to
the boucherie for chef to make another large quantity of purchases. We made it back to the school by 11:00 AM and
took our purchases up to a practicum classroom for the tasting.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Long ago when I first decided to come to <a href="http://www.cordonbleu.edu/lcb-paris/en" target="_blank">Le Cordon Bleu</a>, I
made the decision that I could never turn up my nose to any food. I wasn't a very picky eater to begin with,
but there were certain foods that I had avoided my whole life. A few of those foods had already crossed my
palate since my arrival (e.g., anchovies), and several more were spread out
before me at that moment. Blood sausage,
foie gras, terrine, <i>animelles</i>, and stinky
cheese covered in ash would have given me pause in my past, but as a testament
to my developing taste buds I tried everything and in most cases, actually
enjoyed it (I can do without the blood sausage and animelles, though). And if you ever have the opportunity to try
foie gras terrine with gingerbread, don’t hesitate – just eat it. You will never regret that decision.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI8FjYiarw5Fon4bxsftV6chJI0ILEhl_RD46czYLBbhDiS1HlrJJTZAJ3mblueYLiCF-jy8gK410xriKoBqARJTgUEPsxB6ljOVBfMLCZ5e3UAJJV9SpkwX_TOBxBmuu0dyk90ksBAw/s1600/Cheeses.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI8FjYiarw5Fon4bxsftV6chJI0ILEhl_RD46czYLBbhDiS1HlrJJTZAJ3mblueYLiCF-jy8gK410xriKoBqARJTgUEPsxB6ljOVBfMLCZ5e3UAJJV9SpkwX_TOBxBmuu0dyk90ksBAw/s1600/Cheeses.JPG" height="98" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cheese, more cheese, terrines, blood sausage, and so much more</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
From there we rushed over to the <a href="http://www.toureiffel.paris/en.html" target="_blank">Eiffel Tower</a> to join the
rest of the basic cuisine and patisserie students on a <a href="http://www.bateauxparisiens.com/static/BP/fiche-bateau/en/Onyx.pdf" target="_blank">boat cruise on the Seine</a> for a lunch that the
school was hosting. I had not thought to
bring a change of clothes because I thought that I would have time to change
after the market tour, although I wore what seemed to be an “appropriate”
outfit for the lunch just in case (the directions specified only that we weren't
to wear jeans or tennis shoes). Everyone
was dressed to the nines, with several men in sports jackets and women in shiny
patent leather heels and formal dresses.
I had on navy capris, a gray t-shirt, a casual cardigan, and grey dock shoes. I searched for someone – anyone – equally
dressed down as I was but to no avail. C’est
Paris.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I tucked myself as inconspicuously as possible into the far
end of a table with some of my fellow patisserie students. Free champagne and wine were flowing all
around, but not being a drinker I just enjoyed a wonderful meal of foie gras de
canard with truffle sauce and asparagus, veal with au jus sauce and buttery
mashed potatoes, and pavlova, a sort of vanilla and strawberry ice cream on top
of a meringue and covered in whipped cream.
Having already made a huge faux pas, I decided that asking the waiter
for butter to go with my dinner roll wouldn’t hurt. He replied that butter was for breakfast,
then grudgingly brought me some saying, “It’s fat! Lots of fat!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikc76o9_mfbCjkMo18ahR-DuMq1oBeVyeZWl59GFST2nw5u8EsaWO-gnp50fspLb3FMJ3Bs5-dMCyMdv3DvMJcEZjURP833NNQiMNoOIaFLCQhE2ksVq2i4cUobDl30itRtKaX6vUuMw/s1600/Foie+de+Gras.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikc76o9_mfbCjkMo18ahR-DuMq1oBeVyeZWl59GFST2nw5u8EsaWO-gnp50fspLb3FMJ3Bs5-dMCyMdv3DvMJcEZjURP833NNQiMNoOIaFLCQhE2ksVq2i4cUobDl30itRtKaX6vUuMw/s1600/Foie+de+Gras.JPG" height="108" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Foie gras, potatoes, veal, butter!, and pavlova</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My table mates on either side of me were feeling the effects
of the alcohol a little more quickly than others, and soon the Russian was
talking about how she wanted to kiss someone and the American was relaying her life
story in tears. Across from us sat another
American and Russian and a woman from Egypt.
We began swapping stories about how we came to Le Cordon Bleu which now
had the American on my left crying more and the Russian on my right exclaiming how wonderful it all was. That
part of the conversation was actually quite lovely, though – it revealed a
common thread among us that is lacking from the younger students whose parents
are footing the bill and who are simply there as an extension of their
education. We each knew and understood
the sacrifice, hard work, and inner desire that brought us there.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVPWTkofSV355jUHoAa94W5167z8BI9ig47TUzTsYA81WJ4vQrt4UljqoIlisgzkh4ncOMYzBoYWIOlsgGrqT5mB4K4YhQJM2VcxX8QufvFkGgh_NhmB0EKHpoQubxBvFGAXmets8egQ/s1600/Tasting.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVPWTkofSV355jUHoAa94W5167z8BI9ig47TUzTsYA81WJ4vQrt4UljqoIlisgzkh4ncOMYzBoYWIOlsgGrqT5mB4K4YhQJM2VcxX8QufvFkGgh_NhmB0EKHpoQubxBvFGAXmets8egQ/s1600/Tasting.JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The "old women" table</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I opted to walk back home after lunch rather than take the
Metro in order to work off some portion of the food that I had consumed that
day. When I reached my street, I decided
for the first time to stop in a few shops to look for some skirts or dresses,
feeling the need to prepare for such future lunches and other events. Every store was having a sale – French law
dictates when sales can occur and this one was lasting from mid-June until the
end of July. In true American form, I
purchased two skirts at the <a href="http://www.gap.com/" target="_blank">Gap</a> for a great price by Paris standards – it was the cheapest store on the street and
they took my American credit card.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That evening I kicked back on the terrace with my leftover
Chinese food from Thursday night. It was only then that I
realized why the chicken wasn't very good… because it was actually fish. Sometimes I worry about my career in the
culinary field. Of course, I didn’t say
that my taste buds were fully developed yet – just getting there.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><u>Saturday<o:p></o:p></u></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Chef Caals led Saturday morning’s cuisine demonstration on omelets
and roasted chicken. The omelet was more
of a side note – something to occupy our time while the chicken was
roasting. We once again learned to truss
a chicken, although this one was different in that it was only a month old and
had tender bones, so it had to be handled more carefully. We finally delved into the world of side dishes
as well, and Caals turned an artichoke for us before combining it with cooked
carrots, green beans, daikon radish, and celery root, all cut into perfectly
uniform sticks.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhE3ef-3ETXCOU_AaMuwkuzYKp3xG7wkJQEix8yDlqmpp_67YldKQc9Pq6gNznrCeJM8TmV_ujTFgejn89aTLf_0CKjf_YOPai2QuOvjweFRLQMQKGefc2dTU2FCpOpA5hZFzbqakIWGA/s1600/photo+5+(3).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhE3ef-3ETXCOU_AaMuwkuzYKp3xG7wkJQEix8yDlqmpp_67YldKQc9Pq6gNznrCeJM8TmV_ujTFgejn89aTLf_0CKjf_YOPai2QuOvjweFRLQMQKGefc2dTU2FCpOpA5hZFzbqakIWGA/s1600/photo+5+(3).JPG" height="175" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Herb omelet and chicken (served on top of sauce) with a turned artichoke and garden vegetables</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I love artichokes, but I had never actually worked with one
and I knew that it could cause me trouble in Tuesday’s practicum. I also had a lot of time on my hands with no
classes again until that Tuesday, so I stopped by the grocer’s on the way home
and picked up the vegetable ingredients along with some really wonderful
peaches. I even considered buying a
chicken to roast until I remembered that I had no oven. My final product turned out okay for a first
try, and I had the added benefit of eating a good portion of vegetables for the
first time in weeks.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><u>Sunday<o:p></o:p></u></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Because I was getting to know a few of the folks in church a
little better, I took the opportunity this Sunday to bring one of the American
families a bag of leftover Marshal’s batons with the promise of many, many more
pastries to come. Maybe I will get
through this experience without gaining 100 pounds after all! A French girl in the church also invited me
to hang out after she returned from vacation next week. We know just enough of each other’s language
to get by, and I can look forward to practicing my French in addition to making new friends.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15818532587630238644noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7055176771372598926.post-78658587660394793192014-07-06T16:38:00.001-07:002014-09-08T03:53:25.314-07:00Basic Week Three<br />
Last week I promised to come up with some more "Paris Pros" to counteract last week's negativity, or as I like to call it, "constructive criticism" (because really, if they would only <i>try </i>real bacon then Parisians might finally be willing to admit that they got something wrong).<br />
<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>Flowers. They seem so much bigger and heartier and more colorful here, possibly because of a good amount of rainfall and lower summer temperatures.</li>
</ul>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4GzqbnrWX0VbIVCQhjAkBxbQcXCfkiFRZ8fX4fq7XGLunj9WbYUD_0LVkAkmaDgJ29-CQ1QJr2DRM_58vUFgUYdWB3PQyGoLXpr-u98rMsFQU8M6KnMyyYkO-ERFf_KRrcfpmdaujrw/s1600/photo+1+-+Copy.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4GzqbnrWX0VbIVCQhjAkBxbQcXCfkiFRZ8fX4fq7XGLunj9WbYUD_0LVkAkmaDgJ29-CQ1QJr2DRM_58vUFgUYdWB3PQyGoLXpr-u98rMsFQU8M6KnMyyYkO-ERFf_KRrcfpmdaujrw/s1600/photo+1+-+Copy.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hydrangeas on steroids</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<ul>
<li>Bugs, or the lack thereof. The French inability to understand window screens is forgivable because I can leave my windows open all day or night and although I occasionally get a fly, I don't have to worry about Palmetto bugs, wasps, or spiders invading everything (pigeons, on the other hand...). My only run-in with creepy-crawlies was on Thursday when I swept leaves off of the drain on the terrace and several beetles of some sort began spewing forth like a scene from <i><a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0082971/" target="_blank">Raiders of the Lost Ark</a></i>, but they seemed content to stay near the drain and all was well. Even mosquitoes aren't bad -- I had my first and only bite of the summer yesterday. I do, however, miss lightning bugs.</li>
<li>Weather. Since I arrived here a month ago, the temperatures have exceeded 80 degrees maybe five days. As someone who hates to sweat, the small amount of air conditioning in Paris had me greatly concerned, but so far I haven't even bothered to buy a fan. I hear that August can be a bit toasty, but Paris "toasty" and South Carolina "toasty" are two entirely different concepts.</li>
</ul>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizwVA9iPEleYVK5mDA2HY0WxKsEyu8sVSmv-SIRfAk9atZKWTcwrS_dWhb4COKAZj9WdF6pF939dM3nyCByNJQ_73F_vdLj_S6I74AXoN0UY3_3IPqeNYGGcWzbdbt7VLtpRA1frdKdQ/s1600/Weather.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizwVA9iPEleYVK5mDA2HY0WxKsEyu8sVSmv-SIRfAk9atZKWTcwrS_dWhb4COKAZj9WdF6pF939dM3nyCByNJQ_73F_vdLj_S6I74AXoN0UY3_3IPqeNYGGcWzbdbt7VLtpRA1frdKdQ/s1600/Weather.PNG" height="320" width="180" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Forecast for the 2nd week of July</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<ul>
<li>Stuff like this:</li>
</ul>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBcCvqflTnDEFywlN-MlU6-1vVhsm5JHmCGqKc7uRtlrZY8njdy7YV38YNZ6zsO2n2yUAHKgZwJPN76457ikFFK8hH61YAf6nJ-7mbhrNX7PkuOGWqI0Dw-SwxwLSuNBcXvshKyTkLKQ/s1600/photo+2+(12).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBcCvqflTnDEFywlN-MlU6-1vVhsm5JHmCGqKc7uRtlrZY8njdy7YV38YNZ6zsO2n2yUAHKgZwJPN76457ikFFK8hH61YAf6nJ-7mbhrNX7PkuOGWqI0Dw-SwxwLSuNBcXvshKyTkLKQ/s1600/photo+2+(12).JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Handicap parking sign: "Save - If you take my place, take my disability."</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<ul>
<li>Clothing. While not everyone dresses up in Paris, the only yoga pants or running shoes that you'll ever find are on people who are actually in the act of doing yoga or running. Just to take the ten-minute walk down to my old studio to clean it before check-out tomorrow, I felt obligated to change out of my exercise capris and t-shirt (although if I had run the entire way to and from the studio it would have been okay). Children are especially well-dressed and coiffed, with little girls usually in dresses and little boys sporting neatly pressed shorts and polo shirts. There's just something refreshing about going into a grocery store and not seeing children in their fresh-out-of-bed hair and pajamas (or adults, for that matter).</li>
<li>Butter. Seriously - how has America missed the boat on this one?? I no longer buy butter as a condiment to my bread; I buy bread as a vessel for my butter.</li>
</ul>
<div>
Like I said, it's a love-hate relationship that I have with the city. In spite of the occasional or even frequent annoyances, I'm finding more things that I will likely miss when I return to the states (though not enough to stay in Paris). Nine months still remain to swing the opinion pendulum, of course.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<i><u>Monday</u></i></div>
<div>
<br />
The week started off bright and early in the pastry kitchen making fruit pound cakes and the popular French madeleines from Saturday's demonstration. Because our last pastry practical class was with the infamous Chef Quéré, the sweet grandfatherly Chef Daniel who led this class was like a breath of fresh air. As we wrapped things up I whispered to another American student, "I kind of want to go hug him before we leave. Is that wrong?"<br />
<br />
My final product was only so-so. Pound cakes are difficult to mess up, but a well-made madeleine should have a high lump in its center when it finishes baking, and mine were relatively flat. Chef said that I probably didn't measure my ingredients correctly and gave me a seven on my evaluation, the first grade that I had seen in any of my classes. I could only assume that we're being measured on a scale of one to ten, and although 70% would have sent my life spiraling out of control in college, the knowledge that our final grade at <a href="http://www.cordonbleu.edu/lcb-paris/en" target="_blank">Le Cordon Bleu</a> needs only to be above 50% in order to receive the basic certificate tempered the situation. "Lowered expectations" has become a major theme of this journey.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinJKMFhmiX7iEix18HJtOS7HJFewu0q22jIOBZ5h95TKY0lOvg-b8Oqe88_Hv7k9Wkqe9GxllovBDW9OkfXfEvhXcTv6aT7-n6RoUg7kZWRusDEaJSWbUWu8WC3t6W0UJ7A_Gzff4BAw/s1600/photo+2+(11).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinJKMFhmiX7iEix18HJtOS7HJFewu0q22jIOBZ5h95TKY0lOvg-b8Oqe88_Hv7k9Wkqe9GxllovBDW9OkfXfEvhXcTv6aT7-n6RoUg7kZWRusDEaJSWbUWu8WC3t6W0UJ7A_Gzff4BAw/s1600/photo+2+(11).JPG" height="143" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My fruit pound cakes and flat madeleines</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
After class ended I had about three hours to kill so I ran back to the old studio to wash the dirty laundry I had left behind and to give the place a good cleaning even though my official check-out date wasn't for another week. The laundry would need to air dry, so I wasn't completely ready to be eternally rid of the studio yet.<br />
<br />
This post was supposed to focus on the positive side of Paris, but they really do have the worst washers and dryers in the world. The reason detergents here have such a strong odor is because they need to mask the smell of laundry that never truly gets clean. For example, I can throw a folded sheet into the wash and it will come out still folded. Some washers, like the one in the old studio, also serve as a dryer, but using that function would be comparable to putting the clothes into an oven set on 100 degrees.<br />
<br />
After finishing the cleaning, hanging two loads of wash, and leaving a third one running in the machine, I headed back to the afternoon demonstration on savory puff pastries and quiches. The only puff pastries that I had ever "made" before came with a <a href="http://www.pillsbury.com/" target="_blank">Pillsbury</a> label, so I was particularly excited about learning this new skill.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi296L9YymWSLjnVcpcYSW2Hjpu72BJrT_spjGJCmfUoxDWwrvIcHiyfx46TpmfVkE4ez-gh29CCfIoC7l3qEENBh6SMuneCyR6t87khLfEL_AZFWSyEPWatzU5BY4XKbcyy-jceUnxSw/s1600/photo+4+(6).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi296L9YymWSLjnVcpcYSW2Hjpu72BJrT_spjGJCmfUoxDWwrvIcHiyfx46TpmfVkE4ez-gh29CCfIoC7l3qEENBh6SMuneCyR6t87khLfEL_AZFWSyEPWatzU5BY4XKbcyy-jceUnxSw/s1600/photo+4+(6).JPG" height="167" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Wild mushroom quiche and quiche lorraine</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
The puff pastry process involves folding a large square of butter into a large square of dough, and then rolling it flat into a rectangle, tri-folding the dough, rolling it into a rectangle again, and repeating a total of five or six times. It's not particularly difficult except that the dough and butter both need to be cold and the same relative temperature. Simple enough, right?<br />
<br />
That evening after class I decided to give the <a href="http://www.monoprix.fr/" target="_blank">Monoprix</a> on my street one more chance to provide me with a pillow after dropping in on the old studio to hang the last load of laundry. I began my aimless wandering through the store, knowing full well that no sales associate would be available to help me and growing increasingly irritated at the paltry selection of groceries, when suddenly I noticed people descending a staircase. The store had second floor!<br />
<br />
I found the "up" escalator and pushed my way past the lazy "standers" to find a whole new world waiting for me at the top. Aisles of food spread out in every direction and beyond the food were the household goods. Sure enough, there appeared before me the rectangular pillows - and I had two kinds from which to choose! My prize in hand, I headed back towards the registers when there on the shelf before me sat a whole selection of blow dryers! My ecstasy was overwhelming, so much so that I bought a Monoprix shopping bag and started referring to them as "my" Monoprix.<br />
<br />
<i><u>Tuesday</u></i><br />
<br />
The only class of the day didn't begin until 6:30 PM, so after piddling around the apartment and, of course, ironing the now-dry parts of my uniform, I headed to school. The Asian chef (whose name still eludes me) set us to working on our puff pastries immediately. They weren't quite as easy as I had imagined. For one thing, I used two eggs instead of one, ruining the dough and forcing me to start over - never a good idea for the slow one in the class. On top of that, the room was incredibly warm and the butter was growing soft and starting to break through the dough, which can ruin the batch entirely. The only solution is to chill the dough between turns, but when we have only about an hour to complete that portion of the class even that option isn't always viable.<br />
<br />
We weren't using the puff pastries until the next practical class, so we stowed them in the refrigerator and commenced with the quiche lorraine. The crust was relatively simple but as usual I slaughtered the edge, and after blind baking the shell and pouring in my egg mixture, chef walked by and simply pointed to it while saying, "Not baked enough." Unable to do anything about it, I shoved the quiche in the oven, suddenly remembering that I forgot to do an egg wash on the crust bottom and bake it again and praying that he didn't notice.<br />
<br />
Two other students were sharing the oven that I had preheated (there are enough ovens for everyone but students forget to preheat theirs), so bake time was greatly slowed. After what seemed like an excruciatingly long time and most of the other students had departed, chef declared that my quiche was finished and we removed it from the oven and from its mold. He slid it onto a wire rack and lifted it up to check the bottom - too little blind baking had resulted in several raw crusts that evening - and said it looked... just right. He fingered the top of the quiche and said it looked good, too.<br />
<br />
Chef Daniel, the sweet grandfatherly chef, popped into the room from next door and Asian chef pointed out my quiche to him as they discussed it in French. Chef Daniel ooh'ed and ah'ed before putting his arm around my shoulders and congratulating me on a job well done. Embarrassed, I tried to say something in French about always being the slow one, but he patted my back and replied with something that I couldn't completely understand but that I knew must be incredibly wise and kind, so I just thanked him and left the room, holding my quiche like a trophy. In all honesty, my crust probably would have been raw if the bake time had been faster, but I wasn't going to point that out to either chef.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQDBehbYkXhoaoBLKSU0wOta98eB7g-SK9eMVv0YVz453tBVK7aVjEvpsyAcIqgrl9x_xHYTUa0omI93-4U3VRiwHNL9F-ad8OFOPUeaUfXtkoI6SRfNPc_awQum5ytTxjLcrUo9zbAQ/s1600/photo+1+-+Copy+(6).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQDBehbYkXhoaoBLKSU0wOta98eB7g-SK9eMVv0YVz453tBVK7aVjEvpsyAcIqgrl9x_xHYTUa0omI93-4U3VRiwHNL9F-ad8OFOPUeaUfXtkoI6SRfNPc_awQum5ytTxjLcrUo9zbAQ/s1600/photo+1+-+Copy+(6).JPG" height="238" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Miracle quiche</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<i><u>Wednesday</u></i><br />
<br />
One benefit of doing both cuisine and pastry at the same time is that sometimes the lessons overlap and we can learn a skill twice and come into class with a slight edge over the students who are seeing something for the first time... not that this a competition, of course.<br />
<br />
Wednesday's pastry class was on sweet puff pastries, which are the exact same dough and process as savory puff pastries except for the filling. Chef Tranchant used the dough to make apple turnover, palms, raspberry haystacks, and a lovely twist on an apple pie that gave me some ideas for Thanksgiving. I think that I'm falling in love with puff pastries.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsuvQ1c-rW2mgpJ2UmTArtPULi81NfMIgrmZYRCeTzaLRaakmIBEKAlWgJuHsL7YbBPqF6mVmlfs7JJEQBJ3roL-JaBqQNd38Uvk1xWKPeotU9Qwukumfv074P8oA_zDeRiJWsU2Rlmw/s1600/photo+4+(4).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsuvQ1c-rW2mgpJ2UmTArtPULi81NfMIgrmZYRCeTzaLRaakmIBEKAlWgJuHsL7YbBPqF6mVmlfs7JJEQBJ3roL-JaBqQNd38Uvk1xWKPeotU9Qwukumfv074P8oA_zDeRiJWsU2Rlmw/s1600/photo+4+(4).JPG" height="261" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Apple turnovers and Palms</td></tr>
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<br />
My group headed straight to practical when class dismissed, thinking that we would get Chef Tranchant in there as well. It's no wonder then that I knew as soon as I started hearing the murmur of curse words from the students around me that Evil Chef Quéré was coming around the corner. Our faces blanched as the icy grip of death seized our hearts. You may think that I'm exaggerating, and actually I am, but we were terrified for sure. He yelled out the rules as he entered the classroom ahead of us, "No talking! You measure puff pastry ingredients first! Then you make dough! Then you put in fridge! Then you prepare apples!..."<br />
<br />
The class filed quietly into the room, nobody daring to talk or make eye contact with anyone else. We worked like robots, waiting for chef to look away or leave the room before we'd whisper such questions as, "Do you know where the eggs are?"<br />
<br />
The one good thing about Chef Quéré is that even the slow ones among us don't get too far behind because he likes the group to work in the different stages together, so the faster students end up trying to look busy while they wait for Chef to give the go-ahead for the next steps. Of course, when he's ready to move onto the next stage and he starts yelling, "You have five minutes to have the palms cut and on the baking sheet!" then things get a little tense.<br />
<br />
When we finally had all of our turnovers and palms in the oven baking and our stations were clean, Chef Quéré, apparently satisfied that we met his deadlines, launched into a speech about what made him a great chef and instructor. I wouldn't go so far as to say that he became conversational because it was fairly one-sided, but it was without any tension and students were feeding his ego by agreeing profusely with him. At times he even seemed to have a sense of humor. For example, when he asked a student to get some cooling racks for the baking sheets as he pulled them from the oven, he yelled, "Take your time! Go slower! These aren't very hot!" which of course sent the poor kid running.<br />
<br />
My turnovers and palms were mediocre - not the best but not the worst - but the chef's quick glimpse and simple evaluation of, "C'est bien" ("It's good"), felt like a great compliment coming from him, even though he was shooing me away with his free hand as I stood stupidly in front of him waiting for any additional feedback.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeUNnQP3cpp51hLuMp2veud_MmOiVZbey_4F1u1VYDyEh-VCBp6XEhq_ZKK7mPSTvaeOv_D0yaSyXYhntHO4nDZr6ZsrwYw8SQlO7ZEEuRuCYtQLQcUZacXMzzCX_x8at0zeyXgF8bpQ/s1600/photo+2+(8).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeUNnQP3cpp51hLuMp2veud_MmOiVZbey_4F1u1VYDyEh-VCBp6XEhq_ZKK7mPSTvaeOv_D0yaSyXYhntHO4nDZr6ZsrwYw8SQlO7ZEEuRuCYtQLQcUZacXMzzCX_x8at0zeyXgF8bpQ/s1600/photo+2+(8).JPG" height="143" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Palms and apple turnovers - <i>C'est bien</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<i><u>Thursday</u></i><br />
<br />
The cuisine demonstration and practical classes for the day were centered on using the puff pastry dough that we made in class Tuesday evening. Chef Vaca showed us how to roll the dough and cut it into shapes to bake and fill with leeks, poached eggs, and a creamy sauce. Using the extra dough he whipped up a few peach and apricot tarts with almond cream.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf1vIaMAk_iDley6Fivg8DbMmclxn27kcH6bqYbTPMdnWLH8Ach3Ik7sb6M_5y6C3uplcJ0m5sCLI-duxP5qOXkx3p0Au0h_bvqUvc4DmhX20RYUOYYtQWIrd-OHJsitULIY-1tjxV5Q/s1600/photo+2+(7).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf1vIaMAk_iDley6Fivg8DbMmclxn27kcH6bqYbTPMdnWLH8Ach3Ik7sb6M_5y6C3uplcJ0m5sCLI-duxP5qOXkx3p0Au0h_bvqUvc4DmhX20RYUOYYtQWIrd-OHJsitULIY-1tjxV5Q/s1600/photo+2+(7).JPG" height="110" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Puffed pastries with leeks and poached eggs and a peach tart</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Choosing the right seat in a demonstration class is incredibly important. Early on I gave up vying for a front-row seat because I'm not competitive enough, but choosing the people whom I sit next to it also detrimental. On this day I made the mistake of sitting next to the Brazilian girls. They talk constantly, and the one sitting next to me was carrying on a conversation on her phone for about half of the class (she was short and able to hunker down enough to keep out of the chef and translator's view).<br />
<br />
As if that weren't distracting enough, I suddenly noticed the chef's assistant (usually a superior-level student in charge of such things as keeping the chef's station clean and preparing his ingredients). She was standing to the side, stuffing entire leftover peach halves into her mouth like a squirrel or a two-year-old child. I tried to avert my eyes but instead watched in fascination and horror as she would insert one peach half, then grab another one before the first one was chewed and jam it into her mouth, using her index finger to force it all the way in. After the first couple of peaches she removed the bowl up onto a shelf, thought about it, took the bowl back down, and stuffed in a few more peaches. How I longed for the opportunity to shout out, "Hey, assistant! The orchard called. They're running out of peaches!"<br />
<br />
That evening in the pastry class we had two chefs supervising us - one chef apparently training under the other one. The pastry shells turned out okay, but then I browned my leeks instead of sweating them, we ran out of chicken stock for the sauce and I over-compensated with cream, and I was falling behind on poaching the eggs. Chef-in-training was a little too helpful and ended up poaching all four of my eggs for me. When it came time to assemble our final dish, he chose the "best" egg to top my pastry. The chef doing the evaluation came to my dish and pointed out that apart from the brown leeks and sauce with too much cream, my egg wasn't cooked enough. I wasn't sure if I should blame the Brazilians, the chef-in-training, or the girl with the peaches.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhML9WGX8QWybY-9gZodmK4yqyJLQNCekdU1KczekBZH6Qg9VKosN7YlTbS1zUPmmFcPQE6RvgNPLsyBXL3tTNuOtb2luS3J1YhttunGRh5pmtuXucOoAZ3nxY5PJuo9WlgJWrCozD4ng/s1600/photo+3+(6).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhML9WGX8QWybY-9gZodmK4yqyJLQNCekdU1KczekBZH6Qg9VKosN7YlTbS1zUPmmFcPQE6RvgNPLsyBXL3tTNuOtb2luS3J1YhttunGRh5pmtuXucOoAZ3nxY5PJuo9WlgJWrCozD4ng/s1600/photo+3+(6).JPG" height="285" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fail</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<i><u>Friday</u></i><br />
<br />
Independence Day consisted only of a 3:30 PM pastry demonstration class on Gâteau Basque (cream-filled butter cake) and Diplomat Pudding (bread pudding with candied fruit). This particular class seemed to move incredibly slow without much activity besides dough-rolling, but I sat next to an American from Texas - a fifty-year-old woman with two grown children out of the home, a husband who left her last year, and a big, black cat. Yes, she was also a talker.<br />
<br />
For the past couple of weeks I had been stating how every pastry that we made would be better with ice cream, so much to my delight the chef, running ahead of schedule, whipped up some vanilla ice cream to go with the pudding. He made the mistake of allowing us to serve ourselves, though, so by the time that the first four rows of Asians were finished I was able to get only about half of a spoonful.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp16uwIS0QM_PANUn1oofkQEL4Mj2F5WualO2CK94u_90cMOYrRxx43s5Mgyhh52J6K5Yy141edtDyO-ihi1CVJMsfgDf-_qvCUV7GNWgXhkkJwM7Y65mEk_02B7YtD1NG1f3UKP9bbg/s1600/photo+2+(9).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp16uwIS0QM_PANUn1oofkQEL4Mj2F5WualO2CK94u_90cMOYrRxx43s5Mgyhh52J6K5Yy141edtDyO-ihi1CVJMsfgDf-_qvCUV7GNWgXhkkJwM7Y65mEk_02B7YtD1NG1f3UKP9bbg/s1600/photo+2+(9).JPG" height="140" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Diplomat Pudding and <span style="font-size: small; text-align: start;">Gâteau Basque</span></td></tr>
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<br />
It was the first time since Monday that I was out of classes before 9:30 PM, so I went home and changed into some blue pants, a red, white, and blue-striped shirt, and red flats before heading out to the 11th arrondissement to meet up with Gretchen for a 4th of July dinner to compensate for all of the cookouts that we were missing out on. She found a barbecue place that claimed to be "authentic American," <a href="http://www.bluesbarbq.fr/index.php" target="_blank">Blue's Bar-B-Q</a>. Although I expected some French-ified version, possibly nothing more than ham sandwiches, I was pleasantly surprised. The meat and sauce were good, the sides were decent, and the service was 100% Parisian - the only barbecue place in the universe where you would expect to wait over an hour for a pulled pork sandwich.<br />
<br />
After our 10:00 PM dinner, Gretchen introduced me to the <a href="http://en.parisinfo.com/transports/73189/Place-des-Vosges" target="_blank">Place des Vosges</a>, built in the early 1600's by Henry IV and the oldest and one of the nicest planned squares in Paris. Although the shops were all closed, we walked around the entire square, peaking through windows into rooms full of fine art, jewelry, perfumes, teas, chocolates, and other amazing items, all set in ancient backdrops. As soon as I am able to visit it during the day I will likely be adding it to my list of Paris Pros.<br />
<br />
<i><u>Saturday</u></i><br />
<br />
Saturday morning was my first time to attempt doing laundry in the new studio. In the old studio I was able to find a manual online for the washer and finally figured it out after some trial and error, but the only manuals that I could find online for this washer required payment of some sort. Thank you, <a href="http://www.whirlpool.com/" target="_blank">Whirlpool</a>.<br />
<br />
Too stubborn and cheap to buy a manual, I decided just to use good ol' common sense to figure it out. I was washing sheets and towels only - nothing that needed special care - so I turned the knob to the temperature indicated on the tags and pushed the "Départ" button (I learned that from the microwave).<br />
<br />
After a few minutes I realized that the washer had stopped running. A red light was flashing next to "Arrivée d'eau" - something about the arrival of water. After struggling and failing to open the lid that was locked tighter than a drum and pondering the situation a moment, I pressed the green light flashing by "Départ" again, the only button that seemed to produce a response. The washer started up, but as I listened closely it didn't sound like any water was sloshing around inside. Scrambling through some drawers I finally found a manual in French and managed to deduce that a water valve next to the washer had to be opened, or I was taking dry cleaning to a whole new level. Voilà.<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib0ESmFucax5eMWnwf5xu4MJXwR1T1cUvZgtTt0IxS7WY9Ob2yoMJops_4iNCIeUt6Y4Ey8OrWxsRbtOrebyeAIzs5_v93pe3i8x3YzbLthwCMxKVDX5CXWwn5PsjuZaCSGQRfJHYQlA/s1600/photo+3.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib0ESmFucax5eMWnwf5xu4MJXwR1T1cUvZgtTt0IxS7WY9Ob2yoMJops_4iNCIeUt6Y4Ey8OrWxsRbtOrebyeAIzs5_v93pe3i8x3YzbLthwCMxKVDX5CXWwn5PsjuZaCSGQRfJHYQlA/s1600/photo+3.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
In our 3:30 class we made the Gâteau Basque with Chef Caals, who doubles as both a pastry and cuisine chef. This cake was strange in that the dough was more like a batter, so rolling it out and lining the cake mold required chilling the dough and then working very quickly with it, sometimes stopping in between steps to put the dough back in the fridge. Seeing my opportunity not to be last, I decided to skip the second or third refrigeration and began pressing my dough into the mold. It reminded me a little of Clouseau's nose during the laughing gas scene in <i><a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0075066/?ref_=nv_sr_1" target="_blank">The Pink Panther Strikes Again</a></i>. The cake turned out okay but the general consensus that it wasn't that great of a recipe to begin with. Not <i>all </i>French pastries have to be amazing.<br />
<br />
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<br />
<i><u>Sunday</u></i><br />
<br />
I rounded out the week with the <a href="http://eeb93.net/" target="_blank">church in Saint Denis</a> where a <a href="http://www.bju.edu/" target="_blank">Bob Jones University</a> chorale led by Dr. Bill McCauley was performing a few special numbers. A young team member preached a message on <a href="https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Philippians+4%3A6-8&version=KJV" target="_blank">Philippians 4:6-8</a>, a good reminder that not only should we put off worrying, but that we can't do it in our own strength - we must instead put on prayer and supplication with thanksgiving and the peace of God will replace the worry. Celebrating communion with other believers was an additional blessing and a reminder that no matter how far we are from home, the message of the gospel is universal and uniting.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15818532587630238644noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7055176771372598926.post-47613635182276506942014-06-30T15:09:00.001-07:002014-09-08T03:53:38.786-07:00Basic Week TwoParis and I still have this love-hate relationship going, and because I was pretty generous with her last week, I have to air a few more grievances:<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>Security guards. Everywhere. You walk into a store and they will "greet" you at the entrance by staring you down. It feels a little like entering a maximum-security prison. They fill their spare time by yelling at people for not putting their shopping baskets back in the right location.</li>
<li>Cashiers. Paris isn't known for customer service, but I actually did have some pretty good experiences this week... except at cash registers. Every time I'm standing in one of their incredibly long lines I feel a tight knot in my stomach as my turn slowly approaches. In the states I've experienced rude cashiers chatting with other employees while they ring me up, but here it will go on awkwardly long to the point where I almost feel the need to apologize for interrupting. On Friday a cashier stopped ringing up a customer to reprimand me for resting a light plastic container on top of a box of wrapping paper sitting by the register as I tried to adjust the pile of items in my arms. It took me a while to figure out what she was saying, but she wouldn't continue her work until I removed the container as everyone in the line stared at me. Cashiers are actually quite good at reprimanding customers.</li>
<li>Socialism. Everything is regulated; everything is taxed. While I was still looking for an apartment, one landlord was trying to explain about how quickly housing goes in the city. He said, "There is a high level of...," and I attempted to help his English by throwing out, "Competition?" He replied, "Oh no, we can't have competition." Later he was explaining a tax that I would have to pay for the sidewalk cleaners (trucks spray down the sidewalks every day - see previous posts about litter, urine, and dog poo) - 400 euros per building per year, a 400% increase from the year prior (my share would have been 100 euros). With the French shrug he explained, "We are just in a crisis and the government needs our money."</li>
<li>Traffic. I already said that I had no intention of driving while in Paris, but as a pedestrian I almost got run over by a motorcycle the other day. One step to the right could have killed me because I don't often think to check behind me for motorcycles trying to bypass heavy traffic... WHEN I'M WALKING ON THE SIDEWALK. Also, if you think that you have plenty of time to cross at an intersection, just wait for the light. Traffic will speed up to teach you a lesson.</li>
<li>Appointments. You never know when you'll need one, so don't be surprised when you walk into the post office, bank, insurance agency, or pretty much any other business if they turn you away (but if you see a sign that says, "sans rendez-vous," you're probably safe).</li>
<li>Bacon. Or rather, the lack thereof. Not to beat a dead horse (no French cuisine pun intended), but what civilized country doesn't understand good bacon??</li>
<li>Television. It's all in French. What's the deal? I mean, I know that I'm in France, but if they could just leave the English programs as they are and use subtitles... Watching well-known American movies and shows dubbed in French can provide some temporary laughs, though..</li>
</ul>
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Of course, nowhere in the world are we completely safe from life's little annoyances, and although some of those things will always make us crazy we manage to come to terms with most of them. <i>C'est la vie</i>. At least I've finally begun finding enough redeeming qualities in the city to keep everything in balance. I'll come up with some more pros of Paris next week.</div>
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<div>
Moving on to the other highlights of this week:</div>
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<i><u>Monday</u></i></div>
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While the first week of school was made up mostly of introductory elements, the second week started off at 8:30 AM in the kitchen for the second cuisine practical lesson. We were applying Friday's demonstration of fish stock, fish fillets, and a buttery sauce. Chef Terrien, a 25-year veteran of <a href="http://www.cordonbleu.edu/lcb-paris/en" target="_blank">Le Cordon Bleu</a> with smiling eyes and a patient disposition, led the charge.</div>
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The class had a bumpy start with one girl, simply in the process of preparing for class, poking a knife between two of her fingers enough to cut a nerve and require a visit with a hand specialist and minor surgery the next day. Filleting a fish wasn't one of my finest moments either, but at least I kept all of my fingers. My fillets looked a little too butchered, my sauce was too runny for the chef ("This is soup, not sauce!") so I had to recook it, and I went a little too heavy on the salt (my taste buds enjoy it), but we weren't being evaluated and Terrien's unofficial verdict was, "Not too bad." I'll take it.</div>
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Class was over by 11:00 AM and because I had nothing else scheduled for the day, I returned to my studio and stuffed as many items into one of my suitcases as I could before hauling it a half-mile down the road to the new studio. After dropping it off I took a little tour of the street and found such delights as an <a href="http://www.maison-kayser.com/en/" target="_blank">Eric Kayser</a> boulangerie, <a href="http://www.oliviersandco.com/" target="_blank">Oliviers & Co.</a>, <a href="http://usa.loccitane.com/" target="_blank">l'Occitane en Provence</a>, and several other places that I will never be able to afford and/or that will cause me to double in weight. I had already introduced myself to the <a href="http://www.amorino.com/us/" target="_blank">Amarino</a> shop a couple of weeks prior, but I dropped in again to grab a caramel gelato as my reward for delivering the first 70-pound suitcase.</div>
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One thing that I couldn't shake all day was the smell of fish - it clung to my hands worse than onion. To make matters worse, when I arrived back at the old studio that afternoon and glanced in the mirror, I noticed brown splotches around my nose and eyes and suddenly remembered that moment in class when I dug into the fish's eye socket with a vegetable peeler and a spray of "juice" splattered my face. The fact that I let it stay there for six hours or so made me feel oddly proud. I had officially overcome my raw fish phobia!</div>
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<i><u>Tuesday</u></i></div>
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The relaxed schedule came to an end Tuesday morning. At 8:30 AM Chef Bogan took us through the finer points of preparing a chicken and cooking it, chicken stock, bechamel sauce, and rice (little-known fact: rice is rarely served on the same plate as the chicken in contemporary dishes). He also whipped up an egg and cheese soufflé that was divine but sadly not one of the items that we would be preparing in our practical class, which we jumped into shortly after the demonstration ended.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbDrgav9Z25XViXGplefFYVqexV7VIdwtrsWpRoRCoDiMIoqh3qHN6d8xMpWJrmEkhgK-kiqV3Tx49sQxy8ITDwSvAEfLhRAiDB8_Kk85v3cROOADAX9cgUU1FZcttSCyasP8_uGBeOg/s1600/photo+3+(4).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbDrgav9Z25XViXGplefFYVqexV7VIdwtrsWpRoRCoDiMIoqh3qHN6d8xMpWJrmEkhgK-kiqV3Tx49sQxy8ITDwSvAEfLhRAiDB8_Kk85v3cROOADAX9cgUU1FZcttSCyasP8_uGBeOg/s1600/photo+3+(4).JPG" height="140" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Classic and contemporary chicken presentations and the soufflé</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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I had never before prepared or trussed a chicken. It looked simple enough in the demonstration (as does everything), but holding the thing in my own hands was entirely different. My eyes may have bulged a bit when Chef Cotte whipped out a flaming blowtorch for us to burn off the down, I didn't cut the leg and wing joints off correctly, and I had trouble locating the wishbone for removal, but somehow in the end it was tied. Remembering Chef Terrien's warning, I backed off on the salt. Chef Cotte's reaction was that it needed more salt and I learned that presented food should never, under any circumstances, touch the plate's rim.<br />
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We had only a three-hour break before the evening class, so after a quick change into my street clothes I came back to the old studio and ironed several parts of my uniform that I had washed the night before (wrinkled or stained uniforms can get one thrown out of class) before returning to school. Washing and ironing is becoming like a second job to me, but I'm now extremely grateful that I opted for a studio with a washing machine!<br />
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Our practical class that evening was our first one in pastry and it involved making the diamants (shortbread cookies) from Saturday's demonstration... lots and lots of diamants. While waiting for them to bake, Chef Tranchant brought in a giant bowl of butter whipped with sugar for us to practice piping techniques. As it turns out, piping is not my strong point - nothing artistic is a strong point for me. I fear this whole "presentation" thing could be my downfall.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGIiowwhMphPRcznAkCnYPYpDACPL4Kt4wT-IdKTg2WDH-Ri71HIaY5CqVy2fNBs6zXASfxbcHgytMOkgzoVXssH1ahEtxScrgxK3ZzmIXFLvHrQDx33oJWi2nC9eQYjvywgM1aObK7A/s1600/photo+2+(3).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGIiowwhMphPRcznAkCnYPYpDACPL4Kt4wT-IdKTg2WDH-Ri71HIaY5CqVy2fNBs6zXASfxbcHgytMOkgzoVXssH1ahEtxScrgxK3ZzmIXFLvHrQDx33oJWi2nC9eQYjvywgM1aObK7A/s1600/photo+2+(3).JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Diamants galore</td></tr>
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Dragging myself home sometime after 9 PM, I tossed my lifetime supply of diamants into the freezer for future accompaniments to my evening tea, keeping in mind that I would be adding two more pastries to my collection before the week was out. Then I ate about five of them.<br />
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<i><u>Wednesday</u></i><br />
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My first class of the day wasn't until until 3:30 PM, so I set out to explore the wild and wacky world of renter's insurance. It is required by French law, of course, and my landlord was asking me quite frequently if I had it yet even though I had just signed the lease on Friday and hadn't moved in. I knew that several banks provide this insurance if you have an account with them, but one of my goals has been to avoid opening a French bank account if at all possible. Unfortunately, applying for insurance online also required a French account, but I wasn't going to be that easily defeated.<br />
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My landlord had provided the name of her <a href="http://www.maif.fr/accueil.html" target="_blank">insurance company</a> and although it was almost two miles from me and I would pass approximately 87 agencies on the way, I decided to give it a shot. My fear was that I would need an appointment or that I would get in and not understand for what I was signing. As usual, the Lord had control of the situation and a very friendly receptionist directed me to an even friendlier agent, a Ukrainian girl who spoke enough English to help me through some of the technical jargon. They were going to let me pay in cash, too, except that I had to make the payment through the post office.<br />
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The post office... Up to this point I had avoided it as well, primarily because I remembered trying to mail some letters while in Nice one summer. It was very similar to a trip to the DMV where I had to take a number and sit in a waiting area for a postal worker to call me. Of course, I discovered this protocol only after several customers and one angry worker glared at me for attempting to "cut in line." [<i>By the way, for any of you who are waiting for a postcard, cowardice is my only excuse.</i>]<br />
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Nevertheless, deciding to get the payment processed right away, I marched boldly inside and looked around. This French post office had multiple stations - two or three sort of free-standing podiums that sometimes had workers standing behind them, a closed-off counter in the corner with a lady sitting behind it, and an area hidden by screens with a sign saying "sans rendez-vous," which automatically made me wonder if everything else DID require a "rendez-vous." The confusing part is that the post office also serves as a bank, and the signs are only slightly instructional.<br />
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I chose a podium with a worker and got behind one woman in line, apparently leaving too much space because another woman cut in between the two of us. Normally I would find such behavior rude, but I actually appreciated the extra time to see what other people were doing. When my turn arrived, I used the five magic words from <i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/French-Foe-Getting-Visiting-Working/dp/0964668424/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1404069899&sr=1-1&keywords=french+or+foe" target="_blank">French or Foe</a></i>, "Excusez-moi de vous deranger," ("Excuse me for bothering you,") and it worked like a charm. The worker interrupted me with, "It is no trouble; we are the post office."<br />
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From there he led me to the lady at the corner counter and he began to fill out the paperwork for me. He was also anxious to show off his English skills, so while she processed my payment, he introduced himself and I responded with, "Enchantée." He in turn said, "Nice to meet you." The lady at the counter repeated, "Nice to mees you?" He corrected her, and then attempted to explain the expression to her in French, which produced only a blank stare, which made him further try to explain "nice." The French don't really have a translation for "nice" except for "gentil," which didn't work in this context (compare "He's a <i>nice</i> (Fr., <i>gentil</i>) guy," to "It's a <i>nice</i> (Fr., <i>??</i>) day"). "Friendly" also doesn't translate well (surprise!).<br />
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Friendly Postal Worker (FPW) then asked if I danced, "You know, tango, salsa..." as he wiggled his hips and waved his arms, and for a moment I thought that he was asking me to dance right then. Instead I just laughed and said that I couldn't dance. Fortunately for all of us another customer interrupted our conversation that was quickly descending into awkwardness and FPW had to go. My payment being successfully processed, I made a quick exit as well but gave a final wave and another "Merci beaucoup!" to FPW who shouted back, "Good-bye! I know where you are now!"<br />
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At 3:30 PM I joined the other Basic Patisserie students to watch Chef Tranchant demonstrate the art of French tarts. While we were required only to create a classic apple tart, within three hours he had whipped up an additional tarte tatin (a sort of upside-down apple tart) and tarte normande (apples and custard filling) with amazing speed and alacrity. We also learned how to <i>fraisager</i>, which is simply smearing dough across a counter with our palms until all of the butter lumps disappear and it coheres. I really appreciate how much we get to work with dough directly with our hands in pastry classes - it's almost like play-doh.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj354FMWHfm8NYRhqLGaAVYQuXsKV9jD5DtFsWw_TXmdFx-1GcKf3wGv0QoXLsl__AAOj7KhFEzT21XtKfTEpp5KZifgESEdxbgTbmbm-Ab6WqvxMeMOrGxi6Q9HeRjedlTb9xWpMFM_Q/s1600/photo+1+-+Copy+(5).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj354FMWHfm8NYRhqLGaAVYQuXsKV9jD5DtFsWw_TXmdFx-1GcKf3wGv0QoXLsl__AAOj7KhFEzT21XtKfTEpp5KZifgESEdxbgTbmbm-Ab6WqvxMeMOrGxi6Q9HeRjedlTb9xWpMFM_Q/s1600/photo+1+-+Copy+(5).JPG" height="90" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Classic apple tarts, Tarte tatin, and Tarte Normande</td></tr>
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The demonstration ended just before 6:30 PM so we had to rush to grab our aprons, hairnets, hats, and knife kits to get to our practical class on time. Making the crust was interesting - unlike a regular pie it doesn't use a pie pan, only a bottomless ring mold. Of course my crimping skills for the crust edge needed work, and being the slowest student in the class I was rushing to place my top apple slices at the end, leaving gaping holes and uneven circles. The taste, however, was good enough for me to eat the entire thing (over four nights, of course). Always the presentation...<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4f2tMiyJpEVFerU530qzmy3i_Ir3RPpe5dIOoPAmU-o0qCvincWFCIEF6FZdptXhyphenhyphen4rKnfHAN4JgXE6MnDljeVahiwNgIcEfpRTHOxuvdm-CCTeM-YpKQO6LsKFhBYb9VNZg7hiI9Fg/s1600/photo+2+(6).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4f2tMiyJpEVFerU530qzmy3i_Ir3RPpe5dIOoPAmU-o0qCvincWFCIEF6FZdptXhyphenhyphen4rKnfHAN4JgXE6MnDljeVahiwNgIcEfpRTHOxuvdm-CCTeM-YpKQO6LsKFhBYb9VNZg7hiI9Fg/s1600/photo+2+(6).JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nailed it... or not.</td></tr>
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<i><u>Thursday</u></i></div>
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Chef Vaca introduced us to savory dough recipes. It was the first cuisine demonstration in which I felt some level of knowledge because I had worked with yeast doughs a good bit already. I even felt so bold as to raise my hand and ask why we didn't need to proof the yeast before making the dough. The translator in turn asked the chef who gave an explanation (he said that with more time it would actually be better to proof it), then he said, "That's a very good question! Who asked it?" I beamed like a 5-year-old who was just given a gold star. I can play this Survivor game, too.</div>
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He then proceeded to make an onion, anchovies, and olive pizza. Anchovies were not in my list of of favorite ingredients; as a matter of fact, I had managed to avoid eating them for 40 years because they reminded me of the house centipedes which used to infest my garage (I do like Caesar salad dressing, though). But we have to try everything in demonstration that we're making in practical, and although his spinach and ham cannelloni made with homemade pasta sounded like a much better option, I hesitantly took a bite. It was... delicious, and now I love anchovies (although when I don't get a clean bite and they slide off the pizza and hit my chin I freak out a little).</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN7QcFGs6yG_NLxj-k6CnBnaPq2IinLyxje9mH5vEpMEw7tX58Fru6yRBZh7N01X_Sl045xraOqlKErL_KXlFF5FUO30W4KGwci1PfZQf_mZ6KdlkUjazN731QXZ67MzIyBJmXJY_svQ/s1600/photo+3+(3).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN7QcFGs6yG_NLxj-k6CnBnaPq2IinLyxje9mH5vEpMEw7tX58Fru6yRBZh7N01X_Sl045xraOqlKErL_KXlFF5FUO30W4KGwci1PfZQf_mZ6KdlkUjazN731QXZ67MzIyBJmXJY_svQ/s1600/photo+3+(3).JPG" height="148" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Onion, anchovy, and olive pizza and Spinach and ham cannelloni</td></tr>
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The good-question glow faded three hours later in the practical class as we reproduced the recipe. In the demonstration Chef Vaca had placed the bowl of dough on a pot of water warming on the stove to make it rise faster. While the thought did cross my mind that the metal bowl could get pretty hot sitting on steaming water, I did likewise. Chef Caals, who was leading the class, raised an eyebrow and asked me why I was doing it that way, then simply shrugged when I told him the reason. Sure enough, the bottom of my dough started drying so that when I rolled it out, small hard chunks began to appear. At some point I also cut myself again, and found myself once more the last student to complete her dish, so I ran out of time to let the top brown very well. Nonetheless, it provided a very tasty dinner for two nights.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi91Xrcl_DsSAwSJp8hNnvrIaxYHiGBYf6IsCak7K0X39J6h8Xe5o3_72ElxxW6-QawUFaTD575YRdTjJgw_F65wQ03tvL0RB44YpRi4PWX_RmbAulYFhyphenhyphen0xOZogh0oaSsmfdnRWhT97Q/s1600/photo+5+(4).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi91Xrcl_DsSAwSJp8hNnvrIaxYHiGBYf6IsCak7K0X39J6h8Xe5o3_72ElxxW6-QawUFaTD575YRdTjJgw_F65wQ03tvL0RB44YpRi4PWX_RmbAulYFhyphenhyphen0xOZogh0oaSsmfdnRWhT97Q/s1600/photo+5+(4).JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">What it should NOT look like</td></tr>
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<i><u>Friday</u></i></div>
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We started the morning with back-to-back demonstration and practical classes in choux pastries. For most of us, it was also our first introduction to Chef Quéré. Unlike the previous chefs, he seemed to lack a sense of humor, methodically going through the steps and looking slightly peeved when students asked questions. He made some really beautiful pastries, though, and only broke a smile when we applauded him at the end.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdELFQN4gXEhO_Q4Q9PUfz1vgsaOiQOgmkRPmmaZrigT6aG3WXONoIv98KeIit2kNtKHZj-VuRfokL2_ipfqU_lMZ5KRcV1ALEFgLtGu9rmYvtSmswWHE9HuruQ0gE3lnnzeFM6LLhKw/s1600/photo+4+(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdELFQN4gXEhO_Q4Q9PUfz1vgsaOiQOgmkRPmmaZrigT6aG3WXONoIv98KeIit2kNtKHZj-VuRfokL2_ipfqU_lMZ5KRcV1ALEFgLtGu9rmYvtSmswWHE9HuruQ0gE3lnnzeFM6LLhKw/s1600/photo+4+(2).JPG" height="233" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Paris Brest, four variations of Saint-Honoré, and the chef's own special creation</td></tr>
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In practical class we were assigned the Saint-Honoré, a cream-filled pastry with a bottom tart crust and the puffed choux pastries around the edge. Chef Quéré was in charge of this class as well. We were already starting late because his previous class went over, and things went quickly downhill from there.</div>
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Because the practicals have no translator, most of us have to rely on our limited knowledge of French and the chef's limited knowledge of English. Chef Quéré's English was particularly limited, and when his instructions weren't properly followed he began to slam the counter and scream obscenities at us in whatever 4-letter English words he did know quite well. The faster students had started heating the milk and water for the choux pastry which sent him completely over the edge, and for once I found that my slowness gave me an advantage.</div>
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At one point we were expected to have all of our ingredients for the choux pastries measured out, but only about half the class caught this instruction (and I was not one of them). Chef began yelling at students to put the flour, sugar, and eggs back in storage, so I found myself trying to inconspicuously grab what I needed before he saw me. I proceeded to burn my fingertips in boiling caramelized sugar and I had blood coming from somewhere on my hand or wrist, but being too afraid to let him know, I continued working. Our caramel was also hardening faster than we could dip the pastries, but his screams to go faster prevented us from trying to reheat it and soon I was haphazardly throwing the torn and half-dipped balls into place.</div>
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Then came the moment for the cream filling. For one thing, I had never whipped cream by hand without a mixer - I wasn't even aware that it was possible. The sound of 14 students frantically hand-whipping cream in metal bowls did actually make us laugh (because the chef was out of the room). But then we had to pipe the cream onto our pastry, and I still hadn't quite mastered the technique, so when I saw Chef Quéré approaching me my blood ran cold. He took the bag from my hands and did a row for me, then took the bag again when I still wasn't doing it correctly and showed me again, but surprisingly he was very calm about it.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK8w3bLb9G4qIQN49idw516AseiCtAmQDPWQTVgXRXpOMzb6jfdSJ-cTay0InFOB9v9VOqmcRxLiqmewZQ-iULkJYWLhXL0NwLtW1VE66Bx_Ig2sCxp8JrYHYkD8BhD-Ug0LqqEAr68w/s1600/photo+2+(4).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK8w3bLb9G4qIQN49idw516AseiCtAmQDPWQTVgXRXpOMzb6jfdSJ-cTay0InFOB9v9VOqmcRxLiqmewZQ-iULkJYWLhXL0NwLtW1VE66Bx_Ig2sCxp8JrYHYkD8BhD-Ug0LqqEAr68w/s1600/photo+2+(4).JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My Saint-Honoré, or as I like to call it, my Dishonoré</td></tr>
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<div>
The honeymoon ended about five minutes later when he said, "Clean up your stuff off the counter! I'm pouring the water on in 5... 4... 3... 2... 1" and he proceeded to dump a bucket of water down the length of the table as we scrambled to box our pastries and grab our knife kits. Most of us had lost items (e.g., my paring knife, measuring bowls, and scraper) in the chaos but we took everything down to the winter garden to sort things out because nobody was staying in the kitchen. We exited in stunned silence as if we had all just witnessed a massacre.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
To prevent myself from eating the entire pastry as a source of comfort, I stuck it in the fridge at the new apartment and headed off in search of bed linens, towels, a pillow, and a hair dryer. A friend told me about a store called <a href="http://www.tati.fr/" target="_blank">Tati</a>, a lower-priced place that carries a wide range of products (by Paris standards), and they did indeed carry all of the linens that I needed. My color choices for sheets were red, orange, brown, black, and a bluish-gray (no white). The last choice was the least offensive to my senses and I began searching for a bed pillow. But of course, this is Paris. Why would I expect a store that sells sheets, pillow cases, duvets, duvet covers, and mattress covers to carry anything other than decorative pillows?</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
My shopping list still incomplete, I wasn't quite ready to move into the new studio so instead I returned to the old one and called my bank to set up a wire transfer for the remainder of the nine-months' rent payment (if you'll recall, I had to pay the full amount because I have no guarantor or proof of income). At least this part of the day was successful despite the bank's criminally high exchange rate.</div>
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<div>
<i><u>Saturday</u></i></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Still recovering from Friday's hilarity, I was quite happy that Saturday contained no practical classes. We were back to one of the more personable instructors, Chef Jordan, who walked us through pound cakes and madeleines, the small shell-shaped cakes that are so popular in France (and after tasting one, I understood the reason). That class was followed by a theory class in which we learned everything that we could ever hope or want to know about dairy products and sugars. It was also when I realized that I'm going to need to bring coffee back into my diet if I don't want to sleep through anymore classes.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcTaK-oLDPIC8xbXzoa1L9Ccw_mdvODdL4JN-sLdj5AoFj4_eIehOkkpVzq6wPjlJHpgM39mC5eMAGieYiVYGHM6XG_JaT_bKmAKZtyuv5b02I-LJR9NYQ9M0t5OHX8RWOMlJq-QHHbA/s1600/LemonBread.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcTaK-oLDPIC8xbXzoa1L9Ccw_mdvODdL4JN-sLdj5AoFj4_eIehOkkpVzq6wPjlJHpgM39mC5eMAGieYiVYGHM6XG_JaT_bKmAKZtyuv5b02I-LJR9NYQ9M0t5OHX8RWOMlJq-QHHbA/s1600/LemonBread.jpg" height="178" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lemon pound cakes, fruit pound cakes, and madelines</td></tr>
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<div>
<i><u>Sunday</u></i></div>
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<div>
After trying out the <a href="http://ebc.paris.free.fr/" target="_blank">church near Montparnasse</a> last Sunday, I decided to stick with the <a href="http://eeb93.net/" target="_blank">Saint Denis church</a> for the present and I spent the morning there. When I got back to the studio, I packed up whatever remaining items that I could find into my second suitcase, my backpack, my satchel, and my purse and headed to the new studio, determined to spend the night there even without a pillow. Ecstatic to finally have a place to call my own, I unpacked everything, hanging up or shelving all of my clothes and finding places to stow away all of my toiletries and other small items. For the first time in almost a month I was able to shove my now-empty luggage into a corner and stop living out of a suitcase. It felt really, really good.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15818532587630238644noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7055176771372598926.post-66722813078275731582014-06-22T13:06:00.000-07:002014-06-22T13:06:26.740-07:00School Days<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I know, I know... Last week I was a bit of a Debbie Downer with "Paris stinks" this and "I hate Paris" that (although, for the record, I never actually said that I hated Paris - just that I didn't like living here).</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
Paris still does stink, literally, but in a strange way I hardly notice it anymore. Instead I can now better appreciate the aromas wafting from the <i>boulangeries </i>(bakeries) that keep me perpetually supplied with baguettes, or the rotisseries that sit outside so many <i>boucheries </i>(butcher shops), just daring you <i>not</i> to buy a hot, juicy chicken. Even I purchased one and I don't normally like chicken (unless it's cut into small, batter-covered strips that are deep fried).</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
Shopping has also become easier. Hardly a day goes by that I'm not popping into at least one store to grab an item, and I've quickly learned the value of carrying a tote or grocery bags with me (because you never assume that the store will provide them). Cafés and restaurants are still intimidating, but I mark this issue up as a bonus because I save a great deal of money by not frequenting them.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
Sunday I was able to attend my first <a href="http://eeb93.net/" target="_blank">church service</a> just on the outskirts of Paris in Saint Denis. My spirits felt lifted after not only being in the fellowship of other believers, but also having conversations in my native tongue with other American expats. Any foreigner alone in a country that doesn't speak his or her language can probably attest to the often overwhelming loneliness that comes when one doesn't have "real" face-to-face conversations for days or weeks at a time.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
The service was conducted entirely in French but I found myself understanding the sermon almost completely thanks to a preacher with an American accent (it was also at this point when I realized the reason that one can take four years of college French and still be unable to communicate in France). The congregants were as diverse as Paris itself, a rare treat for someone from a country where churches have a natural tendency to be monochromatic, and they were as friendly as they were diverse, another welcome surprise.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
The real turning point in my attitude, though - the whole point of this blog - didn't occur until the start of my classes at <a href="http://www.cordonbleu.edu/lcb-paris/en" target="_blank">Le Cordon Bleu</a>.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /><i><u>Monday</u></i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
My apprehension was high as I made my way to the school, worried that I would get lost or be hit by a car or have the wrong time or date in my head even though I had checked the map route and orientation email announcement approximately 487 times.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
Despite my fears, I reached the school ten minutes early and joined the line leading outside the door as we waited to be given an identity badge, folder, number, locker key, and directions to the orientation room. This group contained only the Basic Cuisine and Grande Diplome students (Basic Patisserie's orientation was later in the week). As the French and English translators spoke, four things initially struck me:</span><br />
<ul>
<li><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Everyone looked really young. I wasn't the oldest but definitely in the top five, or possibly even the top two, in a room full of of about fifty people. Maybe the bullies would start referring to me as "Grams."</span></li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">There were several Asians, mostly from China - maybe 50% of a class of around 50 students. I'm not sure that Le Cordon Bleu in Bangkok or Tokyo would have as many. The rest of the class contained a mixture of such nationalities as Brazilians, Russians, Africans, and Americans, but surprisingly few French and only one British.</span></li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The school has a lot of rules, and they are very serious about the enforcement. For example, there are to be no watches or jewelry (except wedding bands), no makeup, hair pulled back, clean and pressed uniforms with properly hemmed trousers, safety shoes, no excused tardiness or absences even for illness, no phones or photos in class except at specified times, and no leaving class without permission. On the positive side, it appeared that I wouldn't be fixing my hair or face for nine months (except Sundays).</span></li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Only nine of us in the room were working towards the Grande Diplome (the Basic, Intermediate, and Superior certificates in both cuisine and pastry), which suddenly made sense. A quick perusal of the Basic schedule hammered home the insanity of it. Classes are in three-hour blocks starting at 8:30 AM, 12:30 PM, 3:30 PM, and 6:30 PM from Monday to Saturday, with each day's schedule being different. While week one started fairly easily with only 24 hours of classes (all in cuisine until Saturday), the ensuing weeks often show nine to twelve hours of classes in one day with the heaviest week having a total of 42 hours of classes.</span></li>
</ul>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">But as the administrators continued walking through the rules, the realization gradually washed over me of what was finally happening - the culmination of twelve months of planning and praying and saving, of highs and lows, of tough good-byes and life upheavals. A stupid smile crept onto my face in a completely un-French manner, but I gave up trying to suppress it once the speakers began to pull out our "gifts" - white jackets, blue checkered trousers, neckerchiefs, hats, aprons, and towels, all emblazoned with the royal blue "Le Cordon Bleu" logo, instructional and recipe books for cuisine and pastry, a mesh bag (the only item allowed in class) holding storage containers, a digital kitchen scale, bowls, and a nail brush, and the pièce de résistance...</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
... A giant bag of <a href="http://www.wuesthof.com/international/index.jsp?country=FR" target="_blank">Wüsthof</a> knives and other kitchen utensils - six panels full! I already knew about most of the other items from reading the school handbook, but this bag filled with well over $1000 of, although not the best in the world, certainly some of the finest kitchen items that I had ever owned was almost too much to comprehend. For a moment I thought that maybe they were just loaner bags - something that we would return at the end of our schooling - but when they encouraged us to label the items with our names it was all I could do not to cheer.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">After orientation we were ushered into the <i>Jardin d'Hiver</i> (Winter Garden), the "social" area of the school consisting of several small tables and chairs and a large refrigerator for storing our lunches or leftovers from class. Divided by the numbers we were given upon entering the school, we received our uniforms and instructions to try on our jackets, trousers, and hats in the locker rooms.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
The locker room is, like everything in Paris, extremely cramped and, for lack of a better term, a nightmare. Lockers are stacked two high and are about one-foot wide by two-feet high by one-foot deep with the aisles between the lockers facing each other being only about 18 inches wide. My locker is number five, right next to the room's door which opens directly to the Winter Garden - no hallway or curtain or any sort of buffer zone - and with 99 women's lockers, the door opens quite frequently. Because we are allowed to wear our uniforms only inside the school, changing inside the locker room is mandatory.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
Having survived my first experience in the locker room (everything fit but the hat... because my head is huge), I rejoined my group for a quick tour of the rest of the school where we were introduced to the demonstration and practical classrooms, loaded with more information, and ushered into the registration office to complete some paperwork.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
By 1:00 PM we were finished for the day. The wiser students among us left everything in their lockers except the cookbooks and uniform trousers (they all needed hemming), but I decided to take everything home. I wanted to take out all of the uniform and investigate the contents of the bags personally, particularly the Wüsthof bag. The walk to my current studio is about 17 minutes (just under a mile), which doesn't sound too bad... unless you're carrying approximately 50 pounds of items. About five minutes into the walk I started to feel a nice, sharp pain through my neck and shoulder muscles and knew that I was in for a world of regret.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
Spilling out the contents of my burden when I stumbled through the door, though, made the whole ordeal worth it. Like a child tearing through her birthday presents, I emptied every panel of the knife bag, gasping in wonder at each little item as I spread them out before me, conscientiously grouping them by their panel sections and order before carefully replacing them back into their slots. Well, not too carefully - one finger quickly learned just how sharp a serrated knife can be.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
I spent the rest of the evening hemming both pairs of trousers with hem tape, pressing the whole uniform, and trying it on again before going to bed (yes, I did change into my pajamas first).</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /><i><u>Tuesday</u></i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
Class didn't begin until 12:30 so I slept in and made it to school with plenty of time to spare. Although it was only a class on hygiene, we were from that point forward required to wear our uniforms to every class. In demonstration classes only the jacket, trousers, neckerchief, and shoes are required.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Another student quickly showed me how to tie my neckerchief, but as we stood by the door waiting to be admitted into the classroom, one of the school administrators came to look at our uniforms. She approved of my trouser hem but upon seeing my neckerchief exclaimed, "What is that? That looks horrible - like a boy scout!" I quickly removed it and stuffed it in my pocket, making a mental note to find an instructional video online that evening.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
Most of the hygiene class was spent discussing microbes and types of food poisoning before moving on to dress code requirements. Slight tension arose when a student began to question the necessity of removing her nose ring, but the instructor killed the debate quickly with a reply of, "It's just a rule." The old lady in me inwardly rolled her eyes at the young whippersnapper who was already challenging authority on only our second day and I admittedly felt smug at the instructor's response.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
We were done with hygiene class by 2:00 PM, so I quickly changed and contacted an apartment owner whom I was scheduled to meet at 4:00 to see if she could meet me earlier. The apartment was only a three-minute walk from the school, and because she lived in the same building she was able to let me in right away.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
This studio was the smallest one yet that I had looked at - 14 m² (150 ft²). The proximity to the school was a plus, as was the low price. As usual, though, the pictures did the studio way more justice than it deserved. The current tenant was staying in it until the end of June, but no effort had been made even to tidy it. I climbed up on the mezzanine bed ladder, almost slipping to my death twice, and noticed that the distance between the mattress and the ceiling was about one foot. The bathroom was a sink piled on top of a toilet with a tiny shower crammed in a corner with the shower curtain bar propped up to one side. I already knew that it had no washer, and I could deal with the mini fridge that at least had a freezer box.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
Being on the ground floor did bother me a bit - one window opened directly onto the street and open windows are frequently a necessity in the summer - but the other window looked out over a quiet courtyard. It still couldn't be safely left open at night or while I was away, and keeping the shutters closed for privacy made it feel a bit like a tomb, but Paris summer evenings are usually mild.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The owner, Ghislaine, and I had some confused contractual talk before I told her that I thought I'd take it but that I'd email her when I got home (I understand written French much better than spoken). By the time that I got back to my current studio an uneasy resolve had settled over me, but I was tired of looking and ready to be finished with it.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Let me back up a bit. </span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">A week earlier I had fallen in love with a much nicer studio. Everything was clean, the furniture and decor looked fresh and modern, the bathroom was comparatively huge with space all around the sink and toilet, and it had a large shower-tub, not some 2x2 stall that left the bathroom soaked after each shower or nearly drowned you if you turned around.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">It was larger than any other studio that I had seen at 30 m², it had a full-sized refrigerator/freezer and a washer/dryer, and most importantly, two large glass doors opened onto a quiet and private 25 m² terrace filled with potted bamboo, olive trees, herbs, flowers, and a lovely large table and chair set. Everything was also included in the price - taxes, utilities bills, and the internet.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
The owner, Iphigénie, spoke English well but lived in Belgium so her mother, Emma, who spoke no English, was showing me around. She began to talk patiently about the finer contract details but the words that I understood the most were about the price. It was listed on the website, but for some reason I thought that it was lower - it wasn't even in the range that I had set for myself. I had at one point, though, raised the price on my search filter a little to see what other options came up. I left Emma with an "I'll think about it," but the next day when I went online to look at it again it was gone. Instead of feeling relief that it had already been rented and I didn't have to make the decision myself, I felt a little sad. Nonetheless I decided to go back to my lower price range.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">But on Sunday </span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Iphigénie </span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">wrote to ask me if I had made a decision on the apartment because her mother was "keen" on me and thought that I would be a good tenant. If I wasn't interested she would repost the listing on the website. My heart leapt a little - the apartment was still available, reserved just for me! And not all French people hated me! By then, though, I had my appointment to see the other studio and I was resolved to stay in the lower price range, so I wrote back to tell her as much.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
Returning to my studio Tuesday night, I wrote an email to Ghislaine to get some clarification on the terms of the contract. Her reply was helpful enough but I started to feel almost a sense of animosity from her. She then stated that she needed to know my decision that night because she had to decide which tenant would get the apartment. Perhaps it was pride, but that statement rubbed me the wrong way so I hesitated to respond. Shortly afterwards Iphigénie wrote me to say that she would lower the price on the studio if I really wanted it, but she would need to know by morning.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
One of my daily prayers not only since I arrived in Paris but also for many months prior was that I would find the right apartment. I wasn't sure how I would know what "right" was, though. Were my expectations too high? Was my price range right? Would I just know it when I saw it? At the moment that I got her email, though, "right" seemed suddenly very clear. Yes, the price of this studio would be 30% more than the other one. Yes, it was farther away (only a ten-minute walk, though). But my spreadsheets told me that I could still afford it. It might mean that I make a few more cuts here and there or that I don't have as much of a nest egg when I return home, but then again, about a year ago I quit planning my life around nest eggs. It was almost as if the studio had chosen me.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
I wrote Iphigénie back and said that I'd take it and wrote Ghislaine back and told her that it would be much easier for her to choose a tenant now that I was out of the race. That night I went to bed feeling as if a huge burden had been lifted off of my shoulders. I hadn't simply found an apartment; I found an apartment that I really loved.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /><i><u>Wednesday</u></i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
The only class of the day didn't begin until 6:30 PM, and it was the one to which I looked forward the most - the first demonstration class and our first time with a chef. I arrived early and added a fork and spoon to my jacket sleeve pocket for tasting along with a pen for notes. Our notebooks contained a list of ingredients for the recipe, but we were responsible to write down the steps for putting everything together, and we would use only that paper in the practical class.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Doors to the classroom don't </span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">open</span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">usually until about five minutes before start, so the tiny hallway was soon filled with about 30 students, all jockeying for a position by the door so that they could get front-row seats when it opened.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
In an odd way this experience has started to feel like an episode of <a href="http://www.cbs.com/shows/survivor/" target="_blank">S<i>urvivor</i></a> minus the overacting. We aren't in a competition as far as I know, yet I wonder... Are we evaluated relative to each other? Perhaps if a chef notices a student asking good questions or answering his questions quickly it affects the grade? Students will shout out answers over other students, and I have to believe that some of their questions are simply fabricated for attention - rhetorical questions by students who have either worked in kitchens before or who have studied ahead of time. I may need to form an alliance.</span><br />
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Chef Varca, a pleasant man with a dry sense of humor (unless you're talking in class) spent the beginning of our session discussing different cuts of vegetables. I kind of already knew about julienne (thin sticks), but other than that I understood "coarse" and "fine," which weren't even in the list. Bâtonnet (sticks), brunoise (cubes), ciseler (finely minced), and mirepoix (big chunks?) are just a few of the cuts, but uniformity is key in all chopping for even cooking and sometimes for presentation. They're REALLY big on uniformity. My method of "just chop it up without hurting myself" isn't going to fly.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizVT-0GN2ghzeFzdXW5GAs7kOwusCkJvwLKALBCPFrcHuvlXoZU_Trt66SUnX1K7ZdiN0Wrn9EdIGx5ViapaYsho5CIm-E-GJmiRM5AqPp_PlK3-MIIvGBtSda7-pr7VGhGDSz23PYaw/s1600/photo+1+-+Copy+(3).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizVT-0GN2ghzeFzdXW5GAs7kOwusCkJvwLKALBCPFrcHuvlXoZU_Trt66SUnX1K7ZdiN0Wrn9EdIGx5ViapaYsho5CIm-E-GJmiRM5AqPp_PlK3-MIIvGBtSda7-pr7VGhGDSz23PYaw/s1600/photo+1+-+Copy+(3).JPG" height="320" width="240" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Chef's chopping samples</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Chef was making <i>potage cultivateur</i>, a garden vegetable soup with bacon. I use the term "bacon" very liberally because there are at least three foods that the French don't seem to understand: cottage cheese, barbecue, and bacon (at least these are the three basic food groups over which I get the most outraged). I've tried frying cuts of pork belly from the <i>charcuterie </i>but it ends up tasting like pork chops. Gross.</span><br />
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Nonetheless, chef added pork belly cut into lardons (cubes) that tasted like ham but that were referred to as bacon into the mix. A few more chops here, some sweating of vegetables there, lots of boiling and simmering, and voilà - we had our soup. My notes were disorganized - he would jump from the soup to more of a theory lesson and back to the soup - and often as I was looking down to write I would miss a cutting demonstration entirely because he moves quite quickly. After we sampled the final product the class clambered to the front to snap photos of the dish and ask questions.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk0GrQxL3hUCviN_Atzasyg9u5ydjh511BtrV95SGI7G3nqmTZEqp4SepFbnCsLkjCjCihalLnqkS2P8guNEkqsUCvWPmoWFU8zk1LclYJQlLZthLB-hLWT4GAT4xU9CSF0r0TAFlLDw/s1600/photo+2+-+Copy+(3).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk0GrQxL3hUCviN_Atzasyg9u5ydjh511BtrV95SGI7G3nqmTZEqp4SepFbnCsLkjCjCihalLnqkS2P8guNEkqsUCvWPmoWFU8zk1LclYJQlLZthLB-hLWT4GAT4xU9CSF0r0TAFlLDw/s1600/photo+2+-+Copy+(3).JPG" height="226" width="400" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The <i>potage</i> with toasted baguettes and gruyere cheese</span></td></tr>
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<br /><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I rolled back into my studio around 9:30 PM that evening feeling a bit exhausted despite my lack of any actual work while the "kids" in the class, apparently overloaded with vegetable cut information, spent the evening doing tequila shots at one of their apartments.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /><i><u>Thursday</u></i></span><br />
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Thursday was the first two-class day of the week. Our practical class in which we were to make the soup from the demonstration started at 12:30. Incidentally, it was the first full-uniform class as well, requiring the addition of our hairnets, hats, aprons, and towels. Only the nine Grand Diplome students were in this class, half of them with a hangover, and our chef was not Chef Varca, but rather a tall Asian who taught the whole class in broken English because our translator didn't show up.</span><br />
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In this class we were each given the set of ingredients, a cutting board, and a metal tray. In the tray we laid out the knives and any other utensils from our bag that we would need before storing the bag in a cubby hole. Every student had a designated stove and oven and free access to such things as pots, pans, bowls, and ladles. Sticking our class notes to the oven hoods with magnets, we began three hours of madness.</span><br />
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I forgot many things from the demonstration at that point, but it didn't matter because this chef was telling us to do things differently than what Chef Varca had told us. An onion, leek, carrot, potato, celery stick, and cabbage leaf sat in our "dirty vegetable" bowl, all waiting to be peeled, washed, placed in the clean vegetable bowl or water, and chopped in nice, uniform <i>paysanne </i>(thin squares or triangles) style before being blanched or sweated or simmered or all three in some order that went completely over my head.</span><br />
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I'm not exactly sure how I did that day because the class wasn't being evaluated, except that the chef informed me that if we <i>were </i>being evaluated I would get deductions on my organization and work station cleanliness (surprise!). Then after surviving the onions, leeks, carrots, and celery, I chopped off a little corner of my finger while working on the cabbage.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The boy working across from me, noticing the blood and my "Owie, owie," dance and obviously having taken studious notes in Tuesday's hygiene class, shot on the faucet and yelled, "Cold water!" to me. After a quick rinse of my finger, Chef patched it up with a bandage and rubber covering and I returned to my station to chop the potato, green beans, and lardons, catching my rubber finger guard awkwardly and frequently in the knife blade.</span><br />
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Somehow in the end all of my ingredients were in the soup pot and simmering. We cleaned our work stations and stowed away our knives. Chef didn't taste our soups unless we asked, and although I thought that mine wasn't too bad I wasn't in the mood to be critiqued, so I dumped it in my storage container and stuck it in the refrigerator before shedding my hat and hairnet and making my way to the cuisine theory class. At least I had dinner prepared for the next three evenings.</span><br />
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Chef Varca was again our instructor, this time going over more safety tips and just about every type of kitchen utensil, pot, pan, and appliance in existence. After the prior three hours in our practical class, I felt myself starting to fade into a coma by the second hour. We finished about an hour early, though, so I headed to the studio toting an awkwardly large box of soup and stopped off at the boulangerie to grab a fresh baguette to go with my dinner. And yes, my soup was just fine, thank you very much.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /><i><u>Friday</u></i></span><br />
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Any fears that I had about oversleeping and being late to the first 8:30 AM class were quelled when I woke up a half hour before my alarm went off. Arriving at the school early, I chatted with the one student who I knew was older than me, a nurse from Texas whose husband was letting her take a three-month break to get the Basic Cuisine Certificate. I'll have to ask her to join my alliance when the time comes.</span><br />
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Friday's lesson covered fish and veal stocks in addition to a lesson on how to filet a fish that would be served with some sauce made from the fish stock. A moment of queasiness gripped me as Chef Varca removed the fish's scales and gills before popping out its eyes with a vegetable peeler and scissors, but it soon passed while I watched with wonder his deft movements during the filleting. Stock made from fish carcasses sounded less than appetizing to me, but the surprisingly simple buttery sauce that he made from it looked quite lovely and tasted even better.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpitmfpnuuulC9_idLZ6NXL6kiOFkcxqFqZAD8HuQpwRTdw2HgnPLZU-j6QVGaet_IUaV93oPIpI69HZ7uhVkinyya3qsGqv0Ewu-xbi9HdnEbZ9i5zyXmpv9GaIjV4HjM7sieZCEm5Q/s1600/photo+1+-+Copy+(5).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpitmfpnuuulC9_idLZ6NXL6kiOFkcxqFqZAD8HuQpwRTdw2HgnPLZU-j6QVGaet_IUaV93oPIpI69HZ7uhVkinyya3qsGqv0Ewu-xbi9HdnEbZ9i5zyXmpv9GaIjV4HjM7sieZCEm5Q/s1600/photo+1+-+Copy+(5).JPG" height="239" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">My school day was finished by noon and I was scheduled to meet Emma at the new studio at 2:00 PM to sign the papers. Although she seemed very trustworthy, I was slightly concerned about the process. French law is very strict with rental contracts, making them almost as detailed as American documents when one buys a home, and they must be written entirely in French to be valid. It turned out that Iphigénie is an attorney, though, and wrote up quite a good document for her mother to give me. True, I could have been signing away my first-born child and not realizing it, but then the joke would be on them, wouldn't it?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Emma gave me another little tour of the place which I hadn't seen since the first showing. The fact that I had visited half a dozen deplorable studios between those two times made it seem all the nicer, and I fell in love all over again. She handed me the keys, telling me that I could move in at any time even though my contract agreement didn't begin until July 1. I left with a little spring in my step, taking in the bustling but quaint street on which it sat next to a little park with a large pavilion.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i><u>Saturday</u></i></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">My first patisserie classes of the week began at 12:30. The anticipation of these classes was even greater than it was for the cuisine because baking was my first love. We were to have two back-to-back demonstrations for a total of six class hours.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Aside from the nine Grand Diplome students, a whole new group of people filled the room. Because the first hour of class was somewhat a repeat of the cuisine orientation, I began counting heads for entertainment. The Chinese population won out at 70% and I identified another American student older than me, or at least she had two children who were already out of the home. Maybe she can join my alliance as well.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Chef Terrien stood in for our usual pastry chef who moonlights as a DJ and who was preparing for the <a href="https://www.fetedelamusique.culture.fr/en/International/presentation/" target="_blank">Fêtes de la Musique</a>, the annual music festival in France on the first day of each summer. The demonstrations felt deceptively simple compared to the cuisine classes, and I felt a tinge of excitement when I knew the answers to most of the questions that students were asking. One look at the glossary of terms that we would need to know by exam time dampened my confidence, though.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The first demonstration class centered around bases that used water and various stages of cooked sugar, and in under two hours the chef had whipped up fondant, coffee extract, raw almond paste, <i>praliné</i>, and apricot glaze. The aroma in the room was divine.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr2quj6owFn0CWLqHsbcjWjGCSc6lcDupzgkFSsRHZQLa01vmTHX5VVT3LXtyJ_yXa8IY8BHhbDeY7cj76nYtLuJ2S0HmzXRKY-gO8hu9UVvxO9DofXE896ad_KepIVWT1aDT8t7M6Cg/s1600/photo+3+-+Copy+(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr2quj6owFn0CWLqHsbcjWjGCSc6lcDupzgkFSsRHZQLa01vmTHX5VVT3LXtyJ_yXa8IY8BHhbDeY7cj76nYtLuJ2S0HmzXRKY-gO8hu9UVvxO9DofXE896ad_KepIVWT1aDT8t7M6Cg/s1600/photo+3+-+Copy+(2).JPG" height="320" width="271" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">From top to bottom: Praliné, fondant, apricot glaze, and almond paste</span></td></tr>
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<br /><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">After a quick ten-minute break, we moved on to the second demonstration where we focused on five different shortbread recipes, an essential element to French cuisine for such things as <i>macarons</i> and <i>petits fours </i>(small round cookies)<i>. </i>Each recipe varied only slightly, but the magic happened in the way that the chef rolled and shaped and designed each treat. Our assignment for the first practical class would be the <i>diamant</i>, a simple white shortbread cookie rolled in granulated sugar.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjS08npk3upeWcUbJpatNykKOG7-lzKKeb__lzoIUb5h7pZzd9KGL-oOiFva5yzFiPbo6A1I_Ga6-fj40FXhXvLhp3mjZZiZwpbjL-UGD3hOCKhb6RXPsDuSUFRW3cuwB2u0JeQ8jv_ug/s1600/photo+1+-+Copy+(4).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjS08npk3upeWcUbJpatNykKOG7-lzKKeb__lzoIUb5h7pZzd9KGL-oOiFva5yzFiPbo6A1I_Ga6-fj40FXhXvLhp3mjZZiZwpbjL-UGD3hOCKhb6RXPsDuSUFRW3cuwB2u0JeQ8jv_ug/s1600/photo+1+-+Copy+(4).JPG" height="234" width="640" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Multiple uses for shortbread</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">When the class was dismissed and given the go-ahead to take photos and sample the goods, ravenous students nearly trampled each other to grab the little cookies whose smell had been taunting us for hours. I sampled three (they're tiny - don't judge) and refrained from hoarding more for later when I remembered that we would each be making approximately 20 servings in a few days. With 20 practical patisserie classes in the next three months just for the basic certificate, hoarding desserts will grow old very quickly.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">On my walk home that evening I noticed several musicians setting up stands along the way for the music festival. After the last six hours, though, my focus was primarily on getting home and eating the rest of my soup with a baguette that I grabbed on the way.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Around 8:00 PM as I was feeling fat and comfortable and talking about my day on <a href="https://www.facebook.com/" target="_blank">Facebook</a>, Gretchen, an American originally from Greenville who now lives in Paris, jumped on my page and like some sort of music siren convinced me that I needed to meet her for the festival. Although hesitant at first (once the PJ's are on the day is officially over), it ended up being a great evening. We chose to meet at Les Invalides and explore the 7th and 8th arrondissements, some of the swankier and more beautiful areas in Paris.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjidVZUb9zVl8_Djkdt9u3B6HADAn3abuWW9Z8twQaRQIftWj5t1ltU6_eEH80XIztz4uopK6sPTq2kYelL_Nd69TXHX04m6f2wnAjPitFtzZc_vLUDj9e2TaDOFehCSzNQnfxl7sTVwg/s1600/photo+1+-+Copy+(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjidVZUb9zVl8_Djkdt9u3B6HADAn3abuWW9Z8twQaRQIftWj5t1ltU6_eEH80XIztz4uopK6sPTq2kYelL_Nd69TXHX04m6f2wnAjPitFtzZc_vLUDj9e2TaDOFehCSzNQnfxl7sTVwg/s1600/photo+1+-+Copy+(2).JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">View from the Pont Royal at sunset</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Many of the musicians were in a more techno/strobe-light mood, but after enough wandering we happened upon a few classically French musicians - the "La Vie en Rose" types with berets and accordions - and found ourselves in the midst of a sort of singspiration.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">It was then that Paris started to grow on me, or I at least felt the slightest bit of connection to it inside. For one thing, I can't fathom anywhere in the States where masses of people would stand in the streets singing sweet little traditional tunes, even if they were about guillotines removing heads. My dad's side of the family loves to sing - it's some of my best memories from every family gathering that I can remember - and fewer things make me happier.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">But more than the singing, I finally experienced the warmth that exists among the Parisians, something that you miss out on when your only interaction is through French "customer service" (or the lack thereof). As we joined the crowd, a <i>smiling </i>Frenchman held out his songbook for us to see, pointing to the song and explaining words from it, and another woman reached back and handed us a songbook. Nobody was embarrassed by how they sounded and nobody made fun of anyone's singing. They were just like one big, happy family on a beautiful summer evening.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">We found a little restaurant to stop in for some dessert. Gretchen has mastered restaurants and already connected with the server before, so I was able to order a delicious <i>tarte fraise</i> (strawberry tart) and café with complete ease. We had a perfectly good dining experience before I headed home to my slightly scarier neighborhood where the techno beats down the road continued long into the night. Sleep came easily, though, with the thought that although we may have our differences, Paris and I are going to get along just fine.</span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15818532587630238644noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7055176771372598926.post-51536754510847990602014-06-13T09:59:00.001-07:002014-06-14T02:48:25.833-07:00Period of Adjustment<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I have a little confession to make: <i>I don't like living in Paris.</i></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">[<i>Wait for collective gasp to end.</i>]</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Don't take that to mean that I hate Paris, but as the saying goes, "It's a nice place to visit, but I wouldn't want to live there." When I see tourists (and there are a LOT of tourists), I sort of envy them -- comfy hotels, daily itineraries, the company of friends and/or family, and a return ticket. Some of them have already been here a week or two and they're starting to think that although it's been fun, it sure will be nice to get back to their own homes (at least that's my normal thought process towards the end of most vacations).</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Therein is where my struggle resides -- not in enjoying the things that make Paris a fun place to visit, but in figuring out how to survive in the city when you remove the touristy fun stuff and get down to the day-to-day living, particularly when that living is on a dime. Throw into the mix a language that you can barely comprehend despite a bachelor's degree that testifies otherwise and you start to understand the problem.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I'm just not a big-city kind of girl. I hate shopping and crowds. I like cozy houses in quiet neighborhoods with big yards and green grass and trees, combined with the freedom to jump in my car to head to the peace of the mountains or the bustle of town, all within a few minutes. The smells of summer make me giddy, like freshly-cut grass, the ground after rain, honeysuckle bushes, and outdoor grilling. The nighttime sounds -- bullfrogs and crickets, wind rustling leaves, distant train whistles -- lull me to sleep.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">"Homesick" is probably the word that best describes this condition, because if this last week had </span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">simply</span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">been a vacation then I wouldn't even think of such things. The feeling didn't come as a surprise, though -- I've been through it before and I predicted just as much in one of my previous posts -- and the past experiences do help me handle it better. For example, I know that I will eventually develop a routine, settle into an apartment where I can finally unpack my suitcases, and make some new friends. Until then, I just remind myself to give it some time.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Stress from the chaos and culture shock of the first week was undoubtedly a contributor to my feelings. I arrived here a day later than planned because I was flying standby and my original departure date coincided with 99% of the rest of America who were heading to France with reserved seats to commemorate the <a href="http://www.foxnews.com/travel/2014/06/05/guide-to-commemorating-70th-anniversary-d-day/" target="_blank">70th anniversary of D-Day</a>. I had avoided reserving any hotel because of the uncertainty of getting on a flight, which meant that I was feverishly nailing down a hotel reservation and airport shuttle once I got my confirmed seat between boarding and takeoff. I succeeded in doing only the first one, but finally knew that I had a place to stay at least from Thursday until Sunday.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">We touched down in Paris around 7:00 AM. I grabbed a bench in the terminal and bought some WiFi time in order to reserve a shuttle to the hotel (it had to be done online, but I highly recommend <a href="http://www.supershuttle.com/Locations/CDGAirportShuttleParis.aspx" target="_blank">SuperShuttle</a> if you ever have to do it). A few hours later I was in a van with four other Americans. It was at this point that I knew I would never, ever be driving a car here. They're <i>crazy. </i>On long stretches of highway it's not much worse than say, Atlanta, but something happens when vehicles have to turn or merge, like all lanes disappear and cars just vie for a position at the front. Motorcyclists use the road shoulders and lane dividers as actual lanes themselves, somehow squeezing between vehicles that already appear to be touching.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">In 2007 I totaled my Highlander in a one-person crash. I once drove away from a gas station with the gas nozzle still in my tank. At another gas station I took a side panel off of my Grand Am on one of those concrete posts that protect the pumps from people like me. I blew out both passenger tires running over the sidewalk at Kohl's one Christmas. I got a D- in Driver's Ed in high school (Mr. Sabbadino didn't want to fail anyone for the first time). </span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The Friday before I left Greenville I knocked the front bumper off of a car... parked in a parking lot. Like I said, I will not be driving in Paris.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My going-away present</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Despite the hilarity, we did arrive at my hotel all in one piece. I reserved three nights at the <a href="http://book.bestwestern.com/bestwestern/FR/Paris-hotels/BEST-WESTERN-Bretagne-Montparnasse/Hotel-Overview.do?propertyCode=93307" target="_blank">Best Western Bretagne Montparnasse</a> because it was relatively close to where I would be looking for apartments and it was free (paying all of my tuition on my <a href="http://www.capitalone.com/rewards/" target="_blank">Capital One</a> card finally rewarded me!). After stuffing two giant suitcases totaling about 130 pounds into an elevator approximately 3'x3' along with me, my backpack, and my satchel, I made it up to a room that was just slightly larger than the the double bed that it contained, but at least it looked cozy.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Except that there was no top sheet on the bed. Apparently that's common in France -- duvet covers are considered sufficient. But when it's summer and your room has no air conditioning and it's too noisy outside to leave the windows open, the last thing that you want is a poly-fill comforter covered in a duvet, and you can't just sleep without <i>any </i>covering, right?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">It was still late morning but I needed to begin the quest to find permanent lodgings -- no time for sightseeing yet. While waiting at the <a href="http://www.metwashairports.com/dulles/dulles.htm" target="_blank">airport</a> in D.C. I had sent a few email requests for appointments to see some apartments once I had a better idea of my arrival time. My first showing was that afternoon. No longer able to use my smartphone and unsure of how to work my new handheld <a href="https://buy.garmin.com/en-US/US/on-the-trail/handhelds/dakota-20/prod30926.html" target="_blank">Garmin</a> (turns out it was designed for hiking and sailing, not road directions), I mapped out the directions on my computer, copied them to paper, and headed out get my bearings.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Paris is divided into "arrondissements" numbered one to twenty, with the lower numbers around the center -- the glitzier, more well-known areas of Paris where you find such things as the <a href="http://www.louvre.fr/en" target="_blank">Louvre</a>, <a href="http://www.notredamedeparis.fr/" target="_blank">Notre Dame Cathedral</a>, and the <a href="http://www.toureiffel.paris/" target="_blank">Eiffel Tower</a> -- and the larger numbers border the "P</span><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 1.3;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">ériphérique" (the boulevard that circles the city) and contain far fewer tourist attractions and a lot more "ghetto," but also cheaper housing. Fortunately, <a href="http://www.cordonbleu.edu/lcb-paris/en" target="_blank">Le Cordon Bleu</a> is located in the 15th arr. on the southwest corner of Paris, a lower-rent area with fewer tourists but not as sketchy as, say, 18, 19, and 20.</span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; line-height: 1.3;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I knew that the studios in my budget were going to be small -- I had spent many, many months on <a href="http://www.pap.fr/" target="_blank">housing sites</a> looking at my options, and they always list square footage and usually show photos -- but it wasn't until I stepped into that first one that the reality of it hit me. The first place was 17 </span></span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">m<sup>2</sup><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 20.799999237060547px;">,</span></span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 20.799999237060547px;"> which sounded pretty big because several places were listed as 13 or 14 </span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">m</span><sup style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">2</sup><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 20.799999237060547px;">, but apparently I can't properly conceptualize metric units yet. It was like a dirty walk-in closet with a shoddy-looking sofa bed and a funny smell and very little of anything else.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 20.799999237060547px;">Everything in Paris smells... funny. Men wear too much cologne, cigarette smoke hangs in the air like a cloud, and the streets smell of dog poo, garbage, urine, and exhaust. Pass by the poissonerie (fish shop) or fromagerie (cheese shop) and it just adds to the effect. Even things like laundry detergent and hand soap are over scented -- the smell of my freshly washed clothes right now is giving me a headache -- and scented pink toilet paper... Really??</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 20.799999237060547px;">The studio didn't strike me as somewhere that I wanted to live for ten months. I had more appointments lined up over the next two days, so I went back to the hotel a little deflated and wondering how much I would need to lower my expectations. The next couple of apartments weren't much better, and time was running out. I made the last-minute decision to hop on </span><a href="http://www.vrbo.com/558316" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 20.799999237060547px;" target="_blank">VRBO</a><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 20.799999237060547px;"> and rent a studio for one month to give myself more time to hunt, hoping that better options would soon become available.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 20.799999237060547px;">That Saturday I also decided to try out the <a href="http://www.parismetro.com/" target="_blank">Metro</a> for the first time. I figured that a trip to the Eiffel Tower and back would be good practice. <a href="https://www.google.com/maps/preview?q=google+maps&ie=UTF-8&ei=ABGbU5DqEYrx0gX-xICYDw&ved=0CAgQ_AUoAQ" target="_blank">Google maps</a> will also tell you which Metro lines to take, where to change trains, how many stops are between your departure and arrival points, and how far you'll need to walk to or from the Metro stations.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 20.799999237060547px;">Even with such help, I hopped on a train going in the opposite direction of the Eiffel Tower. About six stops into the ride my mistake finally clicked and I nonchalantly switched trains. The ride was hot and crowded, standing room only, and at one point I was pressed against the back of the train so tightly that I couldn't move my elbows sideways. The horrifying thought struck me that I was about to get sick down the back of whoever was standing in front of me, but then I remembered that I only throw up once every 15 years -- I have another 4 to go.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 20.799999237060547px;">Getting off of the train wasn't much better. Any idea that I had of riding the tower elevator or even taking the stairs was squelched when I saw the lines... or at least the seas of people standing in clumps where lines should have been. Instead I snapped a few photos and hopped back on the train. The good news is that after my one mistake I figured out the system pretty quickly and the trip back went much more smoothly.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 20.799999237060547px;">Sunday morning I repacked my overloaded suitcases and went downstairs to wait for my taxi to take me to my new temporary home. </span></span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 20.799999237060547px;">Two things to note if you rent a studio in Paris: never get it on a Sunday because they will add 50 extra euros to the charge, and try to get one that already has reviews. My cab driver dropped me and my belongs off about 15 minutes before I was scheduled to meet the renting agent, looked at the wino camped out on the front step of the building, and asked if I wanted him to wait. Against my better judgment I told him that he could leave. </span></span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 20.799999237060547px;">My presence must have bothered the wino anyhow because eventually he got up and went across the street to a high locked gate, rang a bell, and disappeared inside of what appears to be a sort of soup kitchen.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 20.799999237060547px;">To my relief, the agent finally arrived and took me inside a dark, grungy hallway that smelled of stale cigarette smoke and mildew, and up to my studio. I was prepared for the size this time, and it was actually nicer inside than some of the ones that I had visited previously... except that there were clothes hanging in the kitchen and on the drying rack and dirty towels on the floor and bathroom towel rack.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 20.799999237060547px;">The agent shrugged it off with, "I'm sure the owner knows it is being rented. It looks like they cleaned it; otherwise there would be more stuff on the kitchen counter." When I asked what I should do with the clothes he replied, "Just put them in the closet."</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 20.799999237060547px;">[<i>The owners did actually show up about two days later because they were not aware that the studio had been rented. But you also can't complain to the French because the customer is never right.</i>]</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 20.799999237060547px;">After he left I opened the windows (air conditioning is very rare in France) and gazed at my view of the French "projects" across the street as the smell of cigarettes wafted through the air. Very little was tempting me to hang out inside the studio and I was starving, so I studied the local map and went for a walk in search of food.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 20.799999237060547px;">Paris has a few American-born fast food restaurants -- <a href="http://www.mcdonalds.fr/" target="_blank">McDonald's</a>, <a href="http://www.subwayfrance.fr/" target="_blank">Subway</a>, and <a href="http://www.kfc.fr/#/home/" target="_blank">KFC</a> are the ones that I've seen the most, but I would hardly venture into any of them in the States, much less in France -- and a few of the specialty shops have ready-made sandwiches or salads, but you won't find many equivalents to the inexpensive sort-of fast food places like <a href="https://www.panerabread.com/en-us/home.html" target="_blank">Panera</a> or <a href="http://www.fiveguys.com/" target="_blank">Five Guys</a> or <a href="http://henryssmokehouse.com/" target="_blank">Henry's Smokehouse</a> (who I wouldn't kill for some good burgers or barbecue right about now). Even the caf</span></span><span style="line-height: 110%;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">é</span></span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 20.799999237060547px;">s require that you plan on sitting and staying for a while, and the bill adds up quickly if you're there for anything more than coffee or a snack.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 20.799999237060547px;">The French love and celebrate dining -- they don't have 40 <a href="http://www.cordonbleu.edu/" target="_blank">Le Cordon Bleu</a> schools around the world for nothing. For the student on a limited budget, however, "French dining" looks mostly like cold ham sandwiches from the boulangerie (bakery). Prices aside, I fear eating in the restaurants. They have unwritten rules that can make the difference between a good and a bad experience. Most tourists don't worry about such things as there is strength in numbers, but for the single foreigner, braving just a </span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 20.799999237060547px;">caf</span></span><span style="line-height: 17.600000381469727px;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">é </span></span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 20.799999237060547px;">for the first time alone can be daunting. Several times I had walked by one and considered just sitting at one of the tables, but they're so close together that it's hard to tell if you're sitting alone or accidentally joining a group of people.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 20.799999237060547px;">My first attempt at a </span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 20.799999237060547px;">caf</span></span><span style="line-height: 17.600000381469727px;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">é wasn't until four days after I arrived -- I was about to get caught in a rainstorm and the place wasn't busy because it was around 3:00 PM. My diet of pain au chocolat, cold ham sandwiches, and gelato also wasn't cutting it anymore and I still hadn't figured out the grocery thing.</span></span><br />
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<span style="line-height: 17.600000381469727px;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">To demonstrate my level of anxiety, I actually went online beforehand and researched how to eat in a Paris </span></span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 20.799999237060547px;">caf</span></span><span style="line-height: 17.600000381469727px;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">é. Do I seat myself or wait to be seated? How do I address the server? What do I have to request and what will they automatically give me? How do I pay when I'm finished? How will they know that I'm finished? </span></span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 17.600000381469727px;">One of my former French professors had also loaned me a book, </span><i style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 17.600000381469727px;"><a href="http://www.pollyplatt.com/pages/frenchfoe.htm" target="_blank">French or Foe</a></i><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 17.600000381469727px;">, that gave several helpful tips on living among the French, but I couldn't remember all of the rules; nonetheless, in the end I successfully received a delicious omelet and carafe of water and even tried a little coffee. My confidence was bolstered until I asked for my check.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUMQCZzgNcw3NpsJHsGBmvKANOAimolL9fFF7Wj5n8ievHQJmkpsO3Z48PFQ0ZWrKZl8OjsK3sszfxYnR2h6MsDADIgKFe8RG46QCuiOikxov4fmkp7Urnz2wlWk5JD4wC1qrPs2oiLg/s1600/10296173_10152437027121550_7826344491295351455_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUMQCZzgNcw3NpsJHsGBmvKANOAimolL9fFF7Wj5n8ievHQJmkpsO3Z48PFQ0ZWrKZl8OjsK3sszfxYnR2h6MsDADIgKFe8RG46QCuiOikxov4fmkp7Urnz2wlWk5JD4wC1qrPs2oiLg/s1600/10296173_10152437027121550_7826344491295351455_o.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
<br />
<span style="line-height: 17.600000381469727px;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I had already been there for about an hour and needed to use the restroom which isn't always an option in </span></span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 20.799999237060547px;">caf</span></span><span style="line-height: 17.600000381469727px;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">és. Nor could I easily get out -- three noisy, chain-smoking teens had squeezed into a two-top table beside me in the otherwise empty restaurant. Thirty minutes later when I caught the server's eye I tried to wave him over but he stared right at me and just walked away. After another 15 minutes I was getting that wild feeling of desperation like an animal trapped in a cage when he finally brought me the bill. I paid, then stood and moved both my chair and table so that I could get around the immobile teens blocking my exit.</span></span><br />
<span style="line-height: 17.600000381469727px;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 17.600000381469727px;">The next two days were filled with apartment visits and getting a SIM card for my phone, but Wednesday was completely free so I put on my walking shoes and headed to the center of Paris. I had mapped out several points of interest between my studio in the 15th arr. and the 1st arr. -- <a href="http://www.senat.fr/visite/jardin/index.html" target="_blank">Luxembourg Gardens</a>, <a href="http://pantheon.monuments-nationaux.fr/" target="_blank">Pantheon</a>, <a href="http://www.musee-moyenage.fr/" target="_blank">Middle Ages National Museum</a>, <a href="http://www.shakespeareandcompany.com/" target="_blank">Shakespeare & Company</a> bookstore, <a href="http://www.notredamedeparis.fr/-English-" target="_blank"><span id="goog_1894979591"></span>Notre Dame Cathedral<span id="goog_1894979592"></span></a>, <a href="http://www.paris.fr/english/heritage-and-sights/bridges/bridges/pont-neuf/rub_8277_dossier_34707_port_19143_sheet_7888" target="_blank">Pont Neuf</a> -- about 4.5 miles (or more if you count the several detours that I took while getting lost). Again, the crowds prevented me from desiring to go inside any of the buildings, so I headed home with the idea that I'd come back in the off-season. I do, after all, have at least nine more months of opportunities.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 17.600000381469727px;"><br /></span></span>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA8LhLqUcehOMbw3-Ae9g2sTbX2uqb6lMerAFYMbDeaZs2F5DGxwFYVc97mTdcqzSpMpbMf4qOw2SpGPUOkkDw1UIbeu-GeiEeP-42p1c8H-pvYFALrJmcWh7cavj1I9IHRUAhHGBqDg/s1600/IMG_9961.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA8LhLqUcehOMbw3-Ae9g2sTbX2uqb6lMerAFYMbDeaZs2F5DGxwFYVc97mTdcqzSpMpbMf4qOw2SpGPUOkkDw1UIbeu-GeiEeP-42p1c8H-pvYFALrJmcWh7cavj1I9IHRUAhHGBqDg/s1600/IMG_9961.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Notre Dame from the Seine River</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 17.600000381469727px;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 17.600000381469727px;">My first week here felt like a lot of work despite very little productivity. It has been spent in hours of apartment research online and in checking off a series of self-assigned challenges -- mostly little things that we usually take for granted but that feel like a much bigger deal when doing it in a foreign country. With each success -- eating, eating out, riding the metro, buying groceries, getting a phone number -- I feel a little better about the next several months. I really can survive.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 17.600000381469727px;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 17.600000381469727px;">Beyond just surviving, though, I think that I <i>will </i>be able to enjoy myself once I get past the acclimation stage. Just last night I bought my first baguette and strolled home with the long loaf in hand (no, not under my armpit). I made myself an omelette and slathered the crusty bread in French butter -- possibly the best butter that I've ever tasted -- and felt just the slightest bit French. I made a connection with someone from a church in Saint-Denis this week and I'll actually be able to attend a service Sunday morning and get some much-needed Christian fellowship.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 17.600000381469727px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 17.600000381469727px;">Then after visiting another studio this morning, I passed Le Cordon Bleu again because it was close by, and I lingered outside a moment simply to smell the glorious aromas coming from the open door. For the first time since my arrival I began to feel the old excitement bubbling back up inside of me. Yes, the start of classes Monday morning will add a whole new dimension of challenges, but that was my purpose in coming here -- to be challenged and to change my whole course in life.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 17.600000381469727px;"><br /></span></span>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhomkeuVeowZGReEZNq3ohSyoRwNu7eA4ByZMq46ZhPKhy7STDoIi3NkBNi95i7JGP7c3hE8LDmAsr2b1X9thzp_abtbws-7_x4NQDUcYC73L7aAZqm9KwQFpEvUHhLy4KTH67K2w9jvg/s1600/IMG_9936.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhomkeuVeowZGReEZNq3ohSyoRwNu7eA4ByZMq46ZhPKhy7STDoIi3NkBNi95i7JGP7c3hE8LDmAsr2b1X9thzp_abtbws-7_x4NQDUcYC73L7aAZqm9KwQFpEvUHhLy4KTH67K2w9jvg/s1600/IMG_9936.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 17.600000381469727px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 17.600000381469727px;">But for now I need to fill today's assignment of finding a SIM card for my Garmin.</span></span><br />
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<sup><o:p></o:p></sup></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15818532587630238644noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7055176771372598926.post-40407856523209963242014-05-29T14:07:00.000-07:002014-05-29T14:25:04.936-07:00Americana<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Few things are better in life than a road trip.</span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I’m not talking about simply traveling from
point A to point B via car, but making the trip more about the journey than the
destination (thank you, Ralph Waldo Emerson).</span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">
</span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">When people tell me that they hate driving long distances, I have to
believe the reason is that they have never done it correctly.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Whenever I have a long drive ahead of me, I immediately pull
up a map to see through what cities I will be passing or could be passing and
what points of interest are there. Although
they were never a part of my original destination, in the past I've been able
to visit the <a href="http://www.nps.gov/badl/index.htm" target="_blank">Badlands</a>, <a href="http://www.nps.gov/moru/index.htm" target="_blank">Mount Rushmore</a>, <a href="http://www.graceland.com/" target="_blank">Graceland</a>, the <a href="http://www.cornpalace.org/" target="_blank">Corn Palace</a>, <a href="http://www.walldrug.com/" target="_blank">Wall Drug</a>, and whatever else makes for a good bumper sticker as I make my way across this big, diverse, fascinating land of ours. Even the ten-hour drive across Kansas can be
enjoyable if you are able appreciate the vast expanse of sky with its
low-hanging clouds that appear to be resting on a glass ceiling, or make a game
of spotting the <a href="http://www.kshs.org/kansapedia/post-rock-cutting-kansas-folk-art/16558" target="_blank">stone fence posts</a> that stand as a memorial to some of the
earliest settlers. A collection of good audio books doesn't hurt, either.</span></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaZ2zmIz_C2DrHLi2jh5eZAf0K8P1nbU9QFRF9fw_n5tEFWf66Zlt-bI1Os-Sz9Ucc3X9vyt2xcTBvEMQQSZe7DWOT-HDVJ8jDukfFO7qjizw5BNO73qLFjVpo4NsmpV90SmfvMFXRtQ/s1600/HankCar.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaZ2zmIz_C2DrHLi2jh5eZAf0K8P1nbU9QFRF9fw_n5tEFWf66Zlt-bI1Os-Sz9Ucc3X9vyt2xcTBvEMQQSZe7DWOT-HDVJ8jDukfFO7qjizw5BNO73qLFjVpo4NsmpV90SmfvMFXRtQ/s1600/HankCar.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hank knows how to appreciate the open roads!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Take for example, the task of delivering my dog to
Indiana. If I had viewed it only as a
seven-hour drive to hand over Hank before turning around and coming home, it
would have been incredibly depressing and tedious. Instead I decided to turn it into a 2500-mile journey
to see all things of interest from Greenville around the top of the Upper
Peninsula and back home again, dropping off Hank on the way. Adding in the company of my dear friend Becky
made it all the better – a trip that I could actually look forward to with
great excitement.</span></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgY4eFFqTI_YW7t59FJxW_hJvVqdyiDdw08rXQxhVkOJCmFbA7rMJ08oz08jBpt04P1chtyHSwpIvWGhqZcp68d662_fF9qF5TDSUV8K-zasXt3VhlvnWVlRISdNgOo9no6CFSWTWprwg/s1600/Trip.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgY4eFFqTI_YW7t59FJxW_hJvVqdyiDdw08rXQxhVkOJCmFbA7rMJ08oz08jBpt04P1chtyHSwpIvWGhqZcp68d662_fF9qF5TDSUV8K-zasXt3VhlvnWVlRISdNgOo9no6CFSWTWprwg/s1600/Trip.jpg" height="400" width="382" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">We managed to hit the road close to noon on Thursday and,
aside from a detour due to an overturned log truck and a few traffic jams, we made
fairly good time. By around 8:30 PM we
had dropped off Hank in Evansville where he received a welcome befitting a
soldier returning home. Our goodbye was
short and sweet because we still had to get to Hannibal, Missouri that night.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxIFcnssxwZ8Zi6fJmlZccSxTmmtMpVjY8y7E7U8ZPBNYZTaxcGJptCev8VAMtJr8WZWpfwa2eK_oEz4X8PkFsPwWQ5sHX7DAZQSAafTP8sgMBKvEgDw7pH2qbXQKe5MWD9ef0iXNXVg/s1600/HankSign.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxIFcnssxwZ8Zi6fJmlZccSxTmmtMpVjY8y7E7U8ZPBNYZTaxcGJptCev8VAMtJr8WZWpfwa2eK_oEz4X8PkFsPwWQ5sHX7DAZQSAafTP8sgMBKvEgDw7pH2qbXQKe5MWD9ef0iXNXVg/s1600/HankSign.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">If you REALLY want to have the full road trip experience,
stay only in sketchy hotels along the way – swanky ones have too little
potential for adventure. At our first
sketchy hotel an extremely nice and partially-toothed desk clerk informed us
that, due to limited space, we would need to park in a field near an underpass... at 2:00 AM.
<a href="http://www.econolodge.com/hotel-hannibal-missouri-MO121" target="_blank">Econo Lodge</a> has a penchant for thin walls and tubs that don’t drain, so
after surviving the walk from the car and a quick shower in which my feet were
submerged in water past my ankles the entire time, I drifted off to rhythmic
snoring coming from the neighboring room and awoke four hours later to approximately fifty
Harley’s revving up outside of our door.
A “continental breakfast,” </span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">the highlight of any hotel stay, </span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">awaited us. I’m a bacon-and-eggs
kind of girl, so a bowl of raisin bran is a special treat.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">After our carb-loaded breakfast we headed over to <a href="http://www.marktwainmuseum.org/" target="_blank">Mark Twain’s Boyhood Home and Museum</a> with great excitement. I had stopped by twice before on previous
road trips but it was the first time for Becky, an English professor and Twain
aficionado. I do not use the term
“aficionado” lightly even though it’s fun to say – she began to weep as we stepped
out of the car and she quite nearly hugged the man selling us tickets. The clerk at <a href="http://www.walgreens.com/" target="_blank">Walgreens</a> was treading
dangerous waters when she informed Becky that she had been to the home and
museum only by force on school field trips, but otherwise she found it quite dull.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">For most non-juvenile delinquents, though, the town is
rather fascinating, allowing one to stand in the
middle of the inspiration for <i>The
Adventures of Tom Sawyer </i>and<i>
Huckleberry Finn</i>. The broad
Mississippi River separating Missouri from Illinois and speckled with
riverboats and barges can be almost hypnotizing to watch.
The museum contains life-sized depictions of some of Twain’s most
popular stories as well as a gallery of original Norman Rockwell drawings
depicting scenes from Twain’s work.
Hannibal is, however, a town that can be fully explored in under four
hours, so by 1:00 PM we were back on the road.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn_UtSsiBXd-8N86T8Tid4K-etzFwu4jUgDa_GHZaux3avceTRHAguBBu6PKfil_AfQZ_D9hcIn7GubqpD4xZcqkXfQ0iBHIXYO9VPg-cORp_9-4TlkZeyQwMTPydOYmvV5sXpSXk8eA/s1600/10258476_10152399396821550_9095905069758488543_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn_UtSsiBXd-8N86T8Tid4K-etzFwu4jUgDa_GHZaux3avceTRHAguBBu6PKfil_AfQZ_D9hcIn7GubqpD4xZcqkXfQ0iBHIXYO9VPg-cORp_9-4TlkZeyQwMTPydOYmvV5sXpSXk8eA/s1600/10258476_10152399396821550_9095905069758488543_o.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hannibal, MO</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Our next mission was to meet Becky’s nephew Ellis in
Schaumburg, Illinois for dinner (he had just moved there two weeks
earlier to begin his internship). </span><a href="http://www.garmin.com/en-US" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;" target="_blank">Garmin</a><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> had our arrival estimate at a few minutes before 5:00 PM, which was in keeping
with my itinerary for the most part; however, passing through Springfield we
made the fateful decision to stop off for some lunch. Anyone who knows history knows that
Springfield was the home of Abraham Lincoln at one time, and anyone who knows
my friend Becky knows that if she has a greater love than Twain, it is
Lincoln. Naturally, when a sign just
before the exit informed us that </span><a href="http://www.lincolntomb.org/" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;" target="_blank">Lincoln’s tomb</a><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> was located nearby, we knew
that we had to make a detour.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">At the risk of offending anybody north of the Mason-Dixon Line,
Lincoln is not one of my favorite historical figures; however, I love visiting
historical sites because they make past events feel more real than the
disconnect that often occurs from simply reading a textbook. His tomb was admittedly impressive – I expected
something more notable than a simple headstone in the cemetery, but the 117-foot
structure covered in bronze sculptures that appeared before us left little
doubt as to which tomb was his. The inside of the vault was lined with
marble </span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">along a round corridor dotted with more bronze statues that chronicled Lincoln's life and led to his burial spot</span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">.</span></div>
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<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3IL5KYu1m9QV5Q7zu0kQToDPadA8r1PBuzHD9pmAFF0XJJlkQGoeIYyiB__8mp9xtqE4Voct6X9p3X9yZ4UPZXO1ywe50ZE0MYBW6I2OgrAqIi7uV8EKToabx0MxGcXGG2nBz8FhqOw/s1600/10363460_10152399639016550_4310617715619591596_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3IL5KYu1m9QV5Q7zu0kQToDPadA8r1PBuzHD9pmAFF0XJJlkQGoeIYyiB__8mp9xtqE4Voct6X9p3X9yZ4UPZXO1ywe50ZE0MYBW6I2OgrAqIi7uV8EKToabx0MxGcXGG2nBz8FhqOw/s1600/10363460_10152399639016550_4310617715619591596_o.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lincoln's Tomb</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Our detour mission now accomplished and Becky once again regaining her composure, we continued the
journey towards Schaumburg only about an hour off schedule. But we were in Illinois, the Land of
Perpetual Road Construction and $4-per-Gallon Gas, where traffic jams abound
and most driving is done between orange barrels and on the shoulder of the
road. The 70 mph signs are a tease,
because anything over 55 mph will get you ticketed for speeding in a work zone.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Using the “Detour” button on my Garmin is always a
gamble. A few years ago it landed my
friend Leslie and me in The Ghetto of a St. Louis ghetto where our conversation
was limited to the constant repetition of, “We’re going to die,” but
occasionally it does pay off. I’m also
the type of person who would rather be moving than sitting in traffic, and with
a line of cars extending as far as the eye could see and <a href="https://www.google.com/maps/preview" target="_blank">Google Maps</a> showing us
only about a quarter of the way through the jam after several minutes, I decided
to take a chance. Whether it saved time
or not will forever be a mystery because apparently all side roads in Illinois
are also perpetually under construction, but at least we were moving.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The <a href="http://www.tripadvisor.com/" target="_blank">TripAdvisor</a> app is a necessity for any road trip,
especially when traveling through areas that are unfamiliar. We picked up Ellis at 6:30 and chose <a href="http://www.loumalnatis.com/" target="_blank">Lou Malnati’s Pizzeria</a> because it had the fourth highest rating out of 269
restaurants based on 162 reviews, and the hour-long wait to be seated in one of
the most jam-packed, loudest restaurants on the planet seemed to support the
reviews. Dinner <i>was</i> excellent (I recommend the Trio of Dips and Pizza Chips
appetizer), but by the time that we finished and dropped off Ellis it was
almost 10:00 PM, about 4 hours later than my incredibly optimistic and
inaccurate itinerary estimate.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Our plan had been to reach Niagara, Wisconsin by 11:00 PM
and spend the night at our friends the Kimbroughs’ house; however, the Garmin
estimate now showed 3:00 AM and it kept going up with each traffic light and
work zone. We were also flat-out
exhausted from the previous late night and the day’s adventures, and just reaching the
Illinois state line was going to be a challenge, so we made a
spur-of-the-moment decision to drive only halfway. Sheboygan, Wisconsin sounded like a good
stopping point, and I really liked saying “Sheboygan.” Actually, I like saying most city names in
Wisconsin, especially in a strong Wisconsin accent.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Saturday morning after another invigorating four hours of
sleep, we continued our journey towards Niagara with a stop-off at <a href="http://www.ni.edu/" target="_blank">Northland International University</a>. Becky and I
first met and formed our friendship at Northland – we were both teachers at the school between 1999 and
2001 (although Becky was there a total of eight years) – and we had been
roommates my second year. We found our
old apartment and took some obligatory shots by the door, hoping that the
current residents weren't watching us through the peep-hole and remembering those days of yore when we ourselves peeked out of that same peep-hole, spying on our
neighbors or hiding from students who decided to drop in for a visit.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKjnhSvfBsHkZyx3PiiGcyJvTIrJiLM0Rs6X9XBFdH8ZEY6g3NGMCt7b73r5kfNi_zx5Fs-N065_7WZb1gFdAXcCKxdUxjZ824c7GJZswN1_Z8kCG82uYT7-ZuJGpPNxBXkwMGDnM6Sw/s1600/10380525_10152401491336550_8168443735626307768_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKjnhSvfBsHkZyx3PiiGcyJvTIrJiLM0Rs6X9XBFdH8ZEY6g3NGMCt7b73r5kfNi_zx5Fs-N065_7WZb1gFdAXcCKxdUxjZ824c7GJZswN1_Z8kCG82uYT7-ZuJGpPNxBXkwMGDnM6Sw/s1600/10380525_10152401491336550_8168443735626307768_o.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Becky showing off our old apartment</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The campus was quiet and almost empty, and our attempts at
breaking into any of the old office and classroom buildings were futile. Having exhausted all efforts and snapping
more photos in front of several buildings, we hopped back in the car and finally
reached Niagara.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The Kimbroughs were just like family to me during my time at
Northland. Wynne and Vickie taught at
the school and Wynne eventually became the pastor of the <a href="http://www.gracekingsford.org/" target="_blank">church</a> that I
attended. Some of my fondest memories
from my time there revolve around being in their home. Despite having five children and her mother
already living at the house, Vickie always seemed to have a flow of guests for
everything from birthdays to holidays, and she made every occasion
special.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHuaejf-xip7LvhDa2drKzMoflCwlzL5rqzxUuxcJR65FJOmG3Jp6Ee4Xhimt3kBKnpmk-0E3cGJ26ITSkPfBbDRcaYVytll0tfsCbBrHZS1zyCYOT6vjJQdtjkux2UmaqOO5HxzRLhQ/s1600/10264194_10152402458571550_6291740550709917519_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHuaejf-xip7LvhDa2drKzMoflCwlzL5rqzxUuxcJR65FJOmG3Jp6Ee4Xhimt3kBKnpmk-0E3cGJ26ITSkPfBbDRcaYVytll0tfsCbBrHZS1zyCYOT6vjJQdtjkux2UmaqOO5HxzRLhQ/s1600/10264194_10152402458571550_6291740550709917519_o.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Vickie and Wynne with the "baby" of the family, Jared</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">After a sweet time of reminiscing and a wonderful dinner, we
crawled back into the car and made our way east. The ever-reliable itinerary had us leaving
Niagara at 5:00 PM and arriving in Bay City, Michigan at 11:30 PM, but we were
already two hours behind schedule. Then I saw the
flashing blue lights in my rear-view mirror.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I've already whined enough times about the injustice of my
speeding ticket to anyone who will listen, so I’ll just cut the story short by
saying that I didn't think that the highway patrol would clock your speed while you're passing a vehicle on a two-lane, two-way road.
If I had passed the van at 55 mph I would have soon run into oncoming
traffic, especially when the van’s driver would speed up and slow down spontaneously,
but I digress… </span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">We continued the drive $125 and two driver’s license points
shorter, crossing over </span><a href="http://www.mackinacbridge.org/about-the-bridge-8/" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;" target="_blank">Mackinac Bridge</a><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> in the dark (not quite as exciting as
during the day) and rolling into Bay City after 2:00 AM.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The </span><a href="http://www.econolodge.com/hotel-bay_city-michigan-MI251" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;" target="_blank">Econo Lodge</a><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> in Hannibal may have been
sketchy, but compared to this one it was the </span><a href="http://www.ritzcarlton.com/en/Default.htm" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;" target="_blank">Ritz</a><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">. A sign, which I am fairly certain had been up
for decades, said that it was “under construction” to explain the bare bulbs
dangling from the hall walls, the peeling wallpaper, and the sagging ceiling plaster. Becky reported that the tub was close to overflowing
while she showered, and when I pulled back the covers on my bed I discovered
that no fitted sheet separated the mattress cover from the top sheet (Becky’s
bed had both sheets so it was apparently not a hotel standard). After waiting through about twenty rings for
the front desk to answer the phone, I finally gave up and slept on just the top
sheet with no protection from the blanket.
When you’re exhausted, though, it hardly matters.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Sunday morning, or should I say, Sunday <i>later</i> morning was the time that I was anticipating the most. Detroit might not have the reputation of a
great place to visit, but it does have one very special gem (technically it’s
in Dearborn, but close enough). My
family visited <a href="http://www.thehenryford.org/" target="_blank">The Henry Ford Museum and Greenfield Village</a> twice – once while
I was in middle school and again in 2012 while we were up north for a reunion –
and absolutely loved it. The museum has
an astonishing collection of historical artifacts
from almost every period and aspect of America – the chair in which Abraham
Lincoln was assassinated, the writing desk of Edgar Allen Poe, the bus on which
Rosa Parks was arrested, the limousine in which Kennedy was shot, George Washington's army cot – and the village contains such buildings as the
houses of Robert Frost and Noah Webster, Thomas Edison’s Menlo Park, the
McGuffey schoolhouse, George Washington Carver’s cabin, and the Wright
Brothers’ Bicycle Shop.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq8G5KUs2jM3_-BfGKuF6DvG6Sg1eMKMh2gfvOWs28RdIpwmOykoDBqB9r3VEMg2FWFLG3kXxCdsvWMq-XCeOoU23BHuP1ep2navPUo9X0Af1QwFfiBfpyn3A6OLio03Nn-HtrUBNIPA/s1600/10373019_10152403166366550_1166621633331677487_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq8G5KUs2jM3_-BfGKuF6DvG6Sg1eMKMh2gfvOWs28RdIpwmOykoDBqB9r3VEMg2FWFLG3kXxCdsvWMq-XCeOoU23BHuP1ep2navPUo9X0Af1QwFfiBfpyn3A6OLio03Nn-HtrUBNIPA/s1600/10373019_10152403166366550_1166621633331677487_o.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Of course, The Henry Ford Museum does have cars as well</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">By 4:00 PM we were finished, worn down and overheated from
hours of walking and a little too much time in the sun. For once we were ahead of schedule because
the museum closed at 5:00 PM and for the first time on our trip it appeared
that we would reach our hotel before midnight.
We spent our last night of the trip in Georgetown, Kentucky, only about 20
minutes north of Lexington.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Monday was Memorial Day.
Our plan had been to visit <a href="http://www.keeneland.com/" target="_blank">Keeneland</a> early that morning in hopes of
seeing the running of the horses before taking our breakfast among jockeys in
the Track Kitchen, but the racetrack was bare and the cafeteria was
closed. TripAdvisor found us a suitable
alternative at <a href="http://www.wallacestation.com/Wallace_Station_Deli_and_Bakery/Home.html" target="_blank">Wallace Station Deli and Bakery</a> (sans jockeys), and with our bellies sufficiently full we began our final leg of
the journey home with a few minor stops in between.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhy-UsBk6JyIWL21yzg3uQYaAXoqh4i2y6zpTJY1iCbtl89DMdNLP0H4I7PTup15xjF9Uuz1W0IKoKSb7LMcDju0taN7dOPcwXeXeDeUcXosdjkI_ZzOMAvnfLALtxbH0e55ZAyyzfENQ/s1600/10374466_10152405024206550_8009984614690874463_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhy-UsBk6JyIWL21yzg3uQYaAXoqh4i2y6zpTJY1iCbtl89DMdNLP0H4I7PTup15xjF9Uuz1W0IKoKSb7LMcDju0taN7dOPcwXeXeDeUcXosdjkI_ZzOMAvnfLALtxbH0e55ZAyyzfENQ/s1600/10374466_10152405024206550_8009984614690874463_n.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The closest that Becky would get to a jockey at Keeneland</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Around 8:30 PM I dropped off Becky at her home. As I drove to my parents’ house, a
combination of feelings suddenly overcame me – being alone for the first time
in four days, missing Hank, realizing that I was leaving in one week – and I
started crying uncontrollably. I cried
the entire way home and for another minute as I sat in the driveway. I thought it was at least partially
attributable to extreme exhaustion, but two days later I still find myself
perpetually on the verge of a meltdown – as if one wrong word or question will
set me off.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Prior to this week all the way back to June 2013 when I
decided to go to <a href="http://www.cordonbleu.edu/lcb-paris/en" target="_blank">Le Cordon Bleu</a>, I never shed a tear, perhaps because my focus
was constantly on planning for my life in Paris. I've avoided thinking too much about the time
when I would have to leave my friends and family, but with this week
concentrated on scheduling last lunches, dinners, get-togethers, and going-away parties, it’s
impossible to dwell on anything else. As a matter of fact, at this point in time when I most need to be wrapping up my travel plans, I am at my lowest level of motivation in months, almost bordering depression.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I
was semi-joking with a friend that it might be easier if I just left right now
without seeing anyone before I go, like ripping off a band-aid. At the same time, the outpouring of love, support, and prayers have opened my eyes to
how blessed I am to have so many wonderful people in my life. If
leaving were easy then I would probably have been a pretty sad person to begin
with.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I should probably start packing.</span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15818532587630238644noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7055176771372598926.post-73880969852315275962014-05-21T18:55:00.000-07:002014-05-21T18:55:05.802-07:00The Hankster<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">[<i>Note: If you’re not a
dog-lover, you may want to skip this post to prevent catastrophic amounts of eye
rolling.</i>]</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">As I mentioned earlier, not all elements of my adventure are
going to be particularly exciting. The
good-byes will naturally be the most difficult part although I expect to see
everyone in about six months, Lord-willing, when I come home for the
holidays. No doubt the time will fly by,
too.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The anticipation of one good-bye has weighed on me more than
the rest, though. It’s not worse than separating from family and friends, but feels a little harder because I can't explain to him what I'm about to do or why I'm about to do it. He's not excited for me at all.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">From Hank’s perspective, my sole purpose in life is to love
him – to play with him when I get home, to hug him close when he gets scared or
hurt, to give him rides in the car, to feed and water him, to provide him with
warmth and security, to give him a bully stick while I shower, and to scratch his belly when I wake up. He has no understanding that tomorrow I will
be dropping him off at a house in Indiana and that I won’t see him again for
almost a year no matter how many times I try to explain it to him. He can’t comprehend that his “mom” is
following her dream.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi36Egdk9Tn3IgnSEPsZ9fiAzsttYwuI9Fy28ULvXH8AGUPvDnCDqL7YGnnaULky21N84FZTI3u0pUaB-BTkq6sRG0xaCE1RMxLtocHlzvq8IxsUEnM5FvHXmkwXlNfBqMvuUzCKa3nXQ/s1600/IMG_6339.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi36Egdk9Tn3IgnSEPsZ9fiAzsttYwuI9Fy28ULvXH8AGUPvDnCDqL7YGnnaULky21N84FZTI3u0pUaB-BTkq6sRG0xaCE1RMxLtocHlzvq8IxsUEnM5FvHXmkwXlNfBqMvuUzCKa3nXQ/s1600/IMG_6339.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hank loves car rides!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Lest anyone think that Hank was not a factor in my plans, he
was actually one of the reasons that I took so long to decide about going to
</span><a href="http://www.cordonbleu.edu/lcb-paris/en" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;" target="_blank">culinary school</a><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">, even when it was just the thought of taking night classes. Not a day has passed since last June that I
haven’t thought about the arrival of this day.
This concern was surprisingly widespread – probably three-fourths of the
people whom I told about my plans asked about Hank almost right away, and I
found it to be a rather touching gesture on his behalf.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdd7DkDhCQRYurPhLXHzZSgsBDCQARfsg9aMJk8gvpSl-un-HcuNVjVca4QINInmxozfOQrr0oDH1_Caz5XMrlHpVIBGO-k6iUTKAiCKjC03XuLtb6idZAB3wMLteF8KU7bwjq1Y5vvw/s1600/IMG_3679.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdd7DkDhCQRYurPhLXHzZSgsBDCQARfsg9aMJk8gvpSl-un-HcuNVjVca4QINInmxozfOQrr0oDH1_Caz5XMrlHpVIBGO-k6iUTKAiCKjC03XuLtb6idZAB3wMLteF8KU7bwjq1Y5vvw/s1600/IMG_3679.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hank's first autumn</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">For a time I even considered taking Hank with me to Paris (they are quite pet-friendly), but some research revealed that the cost could be in the thousands. Even if I had a few extra dollars to spare, pets have to go through some sort of quarantine period before and/or after entering and leaving the country, and I have plans to come home for about six weeks in November. Then there are the horror stories that you read about dogs flying in the cargo sections of airplanes because he's a little too big to carry on, and many airlines no longer take dogs. Add to that the fact that we'd be living in a shoe box and I'd be stuck at school for seven hours a day... and you can understand the dilemma. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Believe it or not, there was a time when I would have gladly given up Hank. </span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Although I had grown up with dogs in our home, I had never had a pet while living on my own. As an introvert who craves regular "alone time," the arrangement worked quite well, but after going through the emotional upheaval of my sister and brother-in-law hauling away all
five of my nieces and nephews to Colorado in 2008, the thought struck me that a dog
might bring me some comfort, or at least distraction. My life felt pretty settled at that point and
I figured that I could dedicate many years to a canine companion.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I sealed my fate when I visited the adult dog section of the
<a href="http://www.greenvillehumane.com/" target="_blank">Humane Society</a> – those cages and cages of sad dogs who had also been separated
from their families. One little girl terrier
caught my eye, but I wanted to sleep on the idea before making a decision. By morning I already decided that her name
would be Daphne (after <a href="http://www.dumaurier.org/" target="_blank">Daphne du Maurier</a>, one of my favorite authors). When I returned to the Humane Society the
next day she was gone. That was when I
met Hank.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Actually, his name was Wally (what a terrible name!) and his
rap sheet said that he was seven months old and dropped off by his owners who
couldn’t afford to keep him. He had also
made an appearance on the local news the night before when they were doing a
segment on the increase in animals dropped off at the shelter for that very
reason, so he was a bit of a celebrity.
He had been neutered recently and was a bit groggy and in pain, but he
still made an effort to wag his tail and greet me. His almost human-like soulful brown eyes and
adorable little underbite stole my heart. I signed the papers for him that night and the
next day a friend and I picked him up.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifr13C6j9Mr8DRSl6s-e1vierlgd3ZDOcJ961Izf2WYgMdwERpdwJHXqD3d0JEglCEyVe9-wjgWdpx0PbAiMszw-MndZnMrruT3-_uF1nGUvUjDxFHONEUewVH3LJ_Q1ApVATIFj3Dxg/s1600/photo.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifr13C6j9Mr8DRSl6s-e1vierlgd3ZDOcJ961Izf2WYgMdwERpdwJHXqD3d0JEglCEyVe9-wjgWdpx0PbAiMszw-MndZnMrruT3-_uF1nGUvUjDxFHONEUewVH3LJ_Q1ApVATIFj3Dxg/s1600/photo.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">That face...</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">That evening we labored over the perfect name once I got him
back to the house (considering that “Daphne” was out). “Wally” had a little red
collar with white flowers that reminded me of a bandana and he was immediately
drawn to a stuffed cow toy, making me think of a cowboy, which in turn reminded
me of </span><a href="http://www.hankthecowdog.com/" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;" target="_blank">Hank the Cowdog</a><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">, a fictitious dog created by John R. Erickson not far from my mom’s childhood home in New Mexico. “Hank” (a.k.a., "The Hankster," "Hanky," "Hanky-Pank," "Pest") seemed to fit just right.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">My friend left and I suddenly felt in a
pickle over what to do with this new little stranger in my house. </span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The post-op medication and pain having worn off, Hank turned
out to be much more hyperactive and willful than I realized. He was also extremely opposed to his
crate. I followed the training DVD instructions,
researched online, threw in toys and treats, and even attended obedience school
with him, but he would not sleep in his crate.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">For eight months he would cry, bark, and gnaw on the crate
door endlessly through the night and for eight months I got very little
sleep. On rare occasions I would wake up
in the morning and realize that I had been able to sleep for several hours
undisturbed. I would sneak in to check
on him, wondering if he had died in the night and worried only because I wasn’t
sure about how I would dispose of his body.
Yes, people with babies deal with sleep deprivation all of the time, but
uninterrupted sleep was supposed to be one of the perks of being single and
childless.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Hank was also an escape artist, and if left unattended in
the back yard for any period of time he would find the smallest fence opening
and wriggle his way out. During my
searches I would secretly hope that he had been kidnapped. We spent a lot of time just staring each
other down. Shame and pride were the
only things that kept me from returning him to the Humane Society.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Our breakthrough finally came when I moved his crate into my
bedroom one evening because I had visitors in the guest room. I fully expected it to be more of the same
hysteria, only louder, but he was completely silent all night long until early
morning. A few days later I left him out
of his crate all night. He jumped on my
bed, curled up by my legs, and didn’t get up until I did the next morning. The thought of a dog sleeping in a person’s
bed had always disgusted me, but when you have gone eight months with little
sleep, you’re willing to accept any solution.
It became our new pattern, and we finally bonded.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">That bond is now the problem. Hank has been a welcome constant companion for almost six
years. I dread the thought of going to
bed without feeling his warm 19 pounds pressed against my legs or feet, or of
waking up without him enthusiastically attacking my face because he refuses to
leave the bed until I do. I hate to
think of walking in the front door and Hank’s face, holding and squeaking his
stuffed ladybug, not being the first thing to greet me. And as many times as I have told him how
annoying he is, I’m not sure that I’ll be able to enjoy watching television or
being on my laptop without Hank and his stupid tennis ball constantly vying for
my attention. I might even miss remaking
my bed two or three times a day because of his burrowing tendencies.</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIKLyE1HascIJFE4aWH21A4vkgw20w9cIKi86Tp2zXWHqYQ0pNzrjoGJsegNjOoJD_J-w7J9Mfiv70XErWB60GEh4LlL06EohVU67wri-5WbIuQP693LmZvy51K5s_cBqaGUNB7H8mdA/s1600/photo+1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIKLyE1HascIJFE4aWH21A4vkgw20w9cIKi86Tp2zXWHqYQ0pNzrjoGJsegNjOoJD_J-w7J9Mfiv70XErWB60GEh4LlL06EohVU67wri-5WbIuQP693LmZvy51K5s_cBqaGUNB7H8mdA/s1600/photo+1.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of Hank's masterpieces</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Hank will be ecstatic when he realizes that he gets to go
for a ride in the car all the way to Indiana.
Just seeing me packing sends him into hysteria. He’ll
run from window to window for about an hour into the drive until he finally
settles down for a nap, never sensing my overwhelming guilt. He will love his new home. He will have enormous amounts of space in
which to run and explore and an amazingly sweet and generous family who loves
animals. Hank adores people and will
probably choose his one special human rather quickly.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The newness of his life will soon wear off and he’ll wonder
for a time where I am and when I’m coming to get him, but that feeling will
eventually fade as well, maybe faster than my vanity imagines, and he will be
his usual, happy, hyper self. He may, in
fact, become so much a part of his new family that he stays with them forever
because I don’t have the heart to uproot him again.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">So rest assured, friends, that Hank will be just fine. I'm not looking for sympathy either, because I'm not exactly being thrown into some terrible situation against my will. Actually, I have turned this little 500-mile journey to Indiana into an epic 2600-mile road trip adventure with an awesome friend because I'm determined to enjoy myself. Of course, I have my spreadsheet itinerary along with a pile of snacks and more audio books than we can possibly finish. This plan has created an emotional roller-coaster of excited anticipation and sad anxiety, but I believe that the "ups" will win out in the end.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">This coming week, the last week of my “normal”
life back home, will be the hardest one without my dog because he will be the most
noticeably missing element. After that,
I will plunge into my new life and a time of missing my friends and family in addition to being occupied with simply
surviving before achieving my "new normal." At least that is my hope.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Until then, I leave you with one of my favorite Hank memories:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dzPZc0kNIbbphF8x0T_aujqgB_-57EzZW6bB2wrju1x_dplUpVDmICkG219BD5MVYTOqq2qy92RKosD4Ms0' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15818532587630238644noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7055176771372598926.post-58446241081323054392014-05-15T17:21:00.000-07:002014-05-15T17:21:30.174-07:00History Lesson<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">When I tell people of my plan to attend <a href="http://www.cordonbleu.edu/lcb-paris/en" target="_blank">Le Cordon Bleu</a>, the
question that naturally follows is, “What are you going to do when you get
back?” “Get a job… in the food
industry,” may sound like a sarcastic reply, but it’s about the most complete
answer that I can give (maybe I could change “the food industry” into “haute
cuisine,” but I wouldn't want to sound stuffy). Not receiving a more
specific response bothers some people, and I can understand their concern to an
extent – why would I invest so much money and time into something with no clear
goal in mind?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Following my answer with, “I just know that this is what the
Lord wants me to do, and I’ll let Him handle the details,” also raises a few
eyebrows because “walking by faith” and “acting carelessly” can look eerily
similar. This way of living has worked
fairly well for me in the past, though, and the more that I remind myself of
how God has never failed me before, the easier each step of faith becomes. Sadly, that’s not to say that every decision
that I ever made came about through a lot of prayer and faith, but that’s what
makes the Christian walk so amazing – God remains faithful in spite of my frequently
foolish or thoughtless actions.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">My major during my freshman and sophomore years at <a href="http://www.bju.edu/" target="_blank">Bob Jones University</a> was
Print Journalism. Like most teenagers, I
chose my major because it sounded like fun and it seemed like something that I
could do. At some point before the start
of my junior year, I decided that Print Journalism wasn't very practical so I switched to something even less practical: French. As part of my first degree requirements I already had two
years of French, plus it’s a cool language – flawless reasoning.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">[<i>True story: One sunny
day my sophomore year as I sat outside the library studying, one of my French professors, Monsieur Loach, hid in the bushes behind me and said in a ghostly voice, “Kerry Kendall! Go to Bob Jones and major in French!” That
was not the deciding factor… I think.</i>]</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">As graduation approached it became clear that I had no idea of what I was going to do with a French degree.
The summer following graduation I worked at <a href="http://www.ironwood.org/" target="_blank">Camp Ironwood</a> and returned
home to work retail until the day after Thanksgiving when I visited <a href="http://www.worldwidetentmakers.com/" target="_blank">Worldwide Tentmakers</a> to inquire about a job overseas – any job overseas (aside from a
love of French I had a serious travel bug).</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><a href="http://www.logos.ac.cy/" target="_blank">Logos School of English Education</a> in Cyprus had just contacted the
office asking if they had anyone who could come teach high school science for
the rest of the school year after one of their teachers took a sudden
leave. My response was, “Where is
<a href="http://www.visitcyprus.com/wps/portal" target="_blank">Cyprus</a>? Isn't that Greek or something*?”
followed by, “Sure, why not?” Less than
two months later I was on my way.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">[*<i>Greek is a primary language in Cyprus, but it is an actual country and not a part of Greece. Don't pretend like you already knew that.</i>]</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Cyprus was probably one of the best experiences in my life. I was homesick most days and wrote a lot of
distressing letters to friends and family bemoaning this fact, but those six
months grew me in more ways than I can measure.
Coming out of my protective shell, learning to live with and among
people who weren't exactly like me, building amazing friendships, dealing
with new and unexpected obstacles – I felt as if I had matured about ten years
by the time that I returned home.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Teaching science, however, was definitely not my “thing." Because my last science course was tenth-grade Biology, with the help of a sort of <i>Science for
Dummies </i>book I was barely keeping up with my students except for a few
annoyingly smart ones who were way beyond me.
Thinking that maybe teaching something that I understood, such as math,
might work with a little more training, I went back to <a href="http://www.bju.edu/" target="_blank">Bob Jones</a> after the school
year ended and started working on a master’s degree in secondary mathematics
education.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Graduation was once again upon me and I was once again at a
loss for what to do. <a href="https://www.hbcguam.net/harvest-christian-academy.html" target="_blank">Harvest Christian Academy</a> in Guam was offering me a three-year contract but I didn't have any
peace about signing it (any commitment beyond a year makes my tongue go numb),
yet I had no other prospects.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Running on
the track the evening before Harvest was going to call me for my decision, I
fell into a conversation with a fellow student who also happened to be the
brother of the president of Northland Baptist Bible College (now <a href="http://www.ni.edu/" target="_blank">Northland International University</a>). He asked about
my graduation plans and mentioned that he knew of a position available at the school for a math teacher, and I expressed an interest in the job.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The next evening when Harvest called to ask for my decision,
I turned them down. Not five seconds after I
had hung up the phone, it rang again and Sam Horn was on the other end inviting
me to come up to Northland for an interview.
I went, they made me an offer, and that summer I moved to Wisconsin to
begin my new career as a math and, as a bonus, French professor.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">While my time at <a href="http://www.ni.edu/" target="_blank">Northland</a> lasted only two years, it was instrumental
in my development as well. I made
several wonderful relationships (including one of my now best friends), I was
able to spend a summer in language school in Nice, France, I learned how to
drive on ice, and I realized that I was not cut out to be a teacher. That last revelation scared me nearly to
death because in my mind, on top of a bachelor’s degree that I no longer needed
I had an equally useless master’s degree and not a clue about what to do next.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Apparently my go-to solution during these crises is “more
school.” I figured that something
concentrated in statistics could get my foot into the business world, and on a
whim I filled out an application to graduate school at <a href="http://www.clemson.edu/" target="_blank">Clemson University</a> although I was
sure that I didn't have the proper math credits to get accepted. As it turned out, I had just enough to make a
two-year degree possible, and I was soon on my way back to Greenville to work on
a master’s degree in mathematical sciences.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Not surprisingly, another graduation suddenly loomed ahead
with absolutely no job prospects – I was beyond broke with several credit cards
maxed out by this time and had not had a single interview except with a temp
agency. Admittedly, applying for jobs
probably would have increased my odds of landing an interview, but at 29 years
of age I had no experience in creating a business resume and no ideas about what
sort of work I should be seeking. Until
now jobs had just sort of fallen into my lap.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">While working on my final thesis with my advisor, I had
mentioned to him that I hoped to stay in Greenville after graduation. A few weeks later he summoned me to his
office to tell me that a recruiter had called him and asked if he had any
graduating students interested in living in the Greenville area for a data
analyst position. My advisor thought to check
with me first before opening up the offer to the rest of the students. I jumped on the opportunity, had one
interview, graduated on a Saturday, and started my job the following Monday. I was so green that about six months passed
before I even knew what <a href="http://www.resurgent.com/" target="_blank">Resurgent Capital Services</a> did, but eleven years later I can honestly
say that I think I finally got the hang of it.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">This little history lesson is not meant to suggest that looking for work or having a plan is unwise, but occasionally we don't even know how to plan or what to expect, or reality takes a totally different turn from our expectations. When we filled out surveys our senior year of
high school asking where we saw ourselves in ten years, I wrote some typical
response like, “Married with 8 kids and working on an llama farm in New Zealand,” but not one
single aforementioned event was included in my answer. Had I answered that same question again ten years
later, it still would have been completely wrong (I would have left out the
husband and kids part, though). Ask me
where I see myself in just one year from now and, “Who knows?” will be the
closest that I can get to a correct answer.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">[<i>Okay, sometimes I reply, “Working at Epcot’s <a href="https://disneyworld.disney.go.com/dining/epcot/chefs-de-france/" target="_blank">Chefs de France</a>,” but that’s mostly because I want the discount <a href="https://disneyworld.disney.go.com/" target="_blank">Disney</a> family passes and an opportunity to regain my Aunt of the Year title… and it’s the happiest place on earth.</i>]</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">If you could peek ahead about nine months into the future,
you would likely find me once again facing the end of my schooling (assuming that I had passed the basic and intermediate levels) with very
little money and no idea of what my next step will be, but my hope is that you
would also see me completely at peace with the knowledge that God already knows. The best part of this journey is that whatever
He has planned for me, it will be far better than whatever my limited little mind
could imagine.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I have nine months to
study both cuisine and pastry under some of the finest chefs in the most famous
culinary school in the world – why would I waste time worrying about what March 2015 will bring? Rather than trying to skip to the end of the story, I want to work my way
through it, enjoying each moment of discovery along the way until the final chapter draws
everything to a conclusion.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<i><span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> “Therefore I say unto you, ‘Take no thought
for your life, what you shall eat, or what you shall drink; nor yet for your
body, what you shall put on.’ Is not the
life more than meat, and the body than raiment? Behold the fowls of the air: for they sow
not, neither do they reap, nor gather into barns; yet your heavenly Father feeds
them. Are you not much better than they?
Which of you by taking thought can add one cubit unto his stature? And why take you thought for raiment?
Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they toil not, neither do they
spin: and yet I say unto you, that even Solomon in all his glory was not
arrayed like one of these. Wherefore, if
God so clothe the grass of the field, which today is, and tomorrow is cast into
the oven, shall he not much more clothe you, O ye of little faith? Therefore take no thought, saying, ‘What
shall we eat?’ or, ‘What shall we drink?’ or, ‘Wherewithal shall we be clothed?’
(for after all these things do the Gentiles seek) for your heavenly Father
knows that you have need of all these things.
But seek ye first the kingdom of God, and his righteousness; and all
these things shall be added unto you.” (Matthew 6:25-33)</span><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15818532587630238644noreply@blogger.com4