I had to cut my elastic hounds tooth pants in order to get them on. Read that carefully - they didn't need to be cut to get them OFF at the end of a sweaty, swollen night of running around the kitchen. The elastic had to be cut to get them ON as I stood in the air conditioned women's locker room, elastic stretched to capacity around the widest part of my feminine curves as I attempted to get dressed for class. Granted, they were the size that I originally ordered last fall when I signed up for school, and soon realized they were just a little too tight for comfort so I exchanged the remaining two pairs for one size larger. I still had this smaller size sitting in the back of my locker, and when I frantically realized that my other two pairs were at the laundromat, they were my only option. Hence how I found myself, on a sunny Monday afternoon after a long day at work, using my kitchen shears to cut the elastic band down to the single-fabric layer, and then wiggling, nay, jumping to get them on. Sure, they were tight when I got them, but they were definitely still wearable. Seven months later, they wouldn't even budge. I spent the whole night with a painful wedgie and the fear that every twist or bend would send the fabric ripping at the seam (that I had cut!), leaving me bare and mortified. That evening when I got home I sheepishly told Steve about what had happened:
"So, I freaked out when I realized both pairs of pants were in the wash. I mean, you know that feeling when you're like, 'oh crap, something bad is happening' so I pulled them over my legs, going as fast as possible to attempt to get a little momentum as they stretched to the maximum but it just didn't work. I had to cut them, Steve, I had to cut them. It was a low point."
Steve: "Well, geez, how'd you let that happen??"
Me: "Um, well, you know, I've just been tasting a lot of the pastry stuff. And you know I love bread and butter. And with my school and work schedule it's harder and harder to get to the gym, but you're right I totally should start making time to work out. But I'm in culinary school for goodness's sake..."
Steve: "Sweetie...no. Oh my God...I meant how'd you let yourself get down to your last pair of pants?"
Me: "Oh."
So maybe I am a little self conscious about it. Nobody likes to be THAT girl though, the one in the corner with the skin tight elastic unisex pants.
It was a pretty standard night at class, although for some reason the person who planned our Family Meal menu thought we should do a Thanksgiving theme, so we had roasted turkey, sweet potato casserole, biscuits and roasted broccoli. It was a little heavy, but delicious as always. However, no Thanksgiving I've ever attended has had 10 (!) perfectly, beautifully roasted full turkeys all lined up on the table (no offense mom). I guess that's what happens when you have a room full of 200 chefs and chefs-in-training.
Next class, while it's still considered Level 4, we'll be training in the main kitchen to prepare for the transition into the restaurant. The Level 6 students will be taking their final exam upstairs (they graduate on Thursday!), and the Level 1 students will be taking their exam (breaking down a chicken...remember that??) in our main kitchen. A whole new class of students start on Wednesday, and we move on to the final rotation of culinary school - cooking for the restaurant. I remember back when I decided to go to FCI, everyone was asking me about the program and curriculum. I would always finish by saying, "We finish school by applying everything we learned by cooking for the school's famous restaurant!" It always seemed so far away...like it was something that would never really happen. We finished up our responsibilities in Family Meal by preparing 15 large lasagnas (some vegetable pesto, some creamy sausage) to serve for Family Meal on Wednesday, since there will be no one available to cook it. I found myself today writing out recipes again on small note cards, something I haven't done since the beginning of Level 3, preparing to learn the restaurant's summer menu. I'll be starting as poisonnier, the fish station, with two other group members. We'll have a new chef, a new group and a new menu...I guess all good things must come to an end.
I've had a security badge at work since my first assignment back in January. They are required for everything, and the armed guards will not let you enter the building without one. The other day, I walked in and scanned my card as usual. I got on the elevator, pushed my floor button and the doors started closing. All of a sudden, a large, meaty arm comes through to stop the elevator from closing, and the guard points to me and says, "Ma'am, I'm going to need to speak to you." Crap...I can explain the apple corer in my bag, I'm a culinary student! It turns out my supervisor hadn't renewed my clearance, so they took my card away and gave me a temporary (and limited) pass for the day. It's amazing how instantly I felt rejected from their club, the exclusive united government workers 'we're all on the same team' club. I felt their eyes judging me as I walked through the cafeteria; "Oh, she's wearing a day pass. She's probably an ex-con that couldn't get clearance. Or she isn't smart enough to actually work for the government full time...she's probably a TEMP!" Without my I.D., which helped me blend into the masses, I suddenly felt like an outcast. It's amazing how a piece of colored plastic can help you feel like you belong, or vice versa. That afternoon, I stopped by the security desk on my way home to pick up my new, renewed card. There were two cards sitting out on the desk: mine and another employee's, let's call him Tony Stark (for the story's purposes). I approached the officer and said, "Hi, good afternoon, I'm here to pick up my I.D. Oh, that's actually mine right there...[pointing at cards]...Tony Stark." He slowly looked me in the eyes, keeping his face stoic, and looked back down. I think he even reached for his weapon. Yikes, note to self: never joke with the NYPD. I don't blame him though, with their high-stress jobs I wouldn't appreciate anyone making an ass of themselves either. Thank goodness the pants-cutting happened that evening, or else I probably would have accidentally disclosed that story. No wonder they took away my security clearance...
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