Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds…

If I could undo one day in my life, the entirety of my twenty five years, one day (nay, one HOUR) stands out in my memory like a large, sore thumb. It was that one day (one hour) that changed my life as I know it and is still causing a shockwave of consequences to this day in the form of medical and physical therapy bills.

In college, during a fun and joyful trip to the roller skating rink to welcome a new class of Freshmen into our sorority, I was tooling around on my skates when I fell…hard. So hard in fact that witnesses said the impact on my wrists made me pop several feet in the air, only to come back down on those same abused wrists and spine. To make a long story short, I broke my right radius, tilted my tailbone and dislocated my jaw (seriously). The trauma also caused both wrists to choose to develop nasty little cysts deep down in the joint, which, once the rest of my problems were under control, started to give me serious pain. I had my right wrist surgically fixed in college, but my left wrist has been the bane of my existence ever since, flaming up during the most inopportune moments.

So, after my wonderful and happy graduation from culinary school, I decided that there was no better time than the present to finally fix my left wrist, just in time to ruin my Halloween. I'm just now getting back on my feet/hands, and am able to type sentences with full punctuation, thoughtful candor and insightful wisdom. I've been dying to get back to the keyboard, so here I am. Is this the end of the backlash from that one night? We'll never know…if only I could go back to that dinky skating rink in West Lafayette, Indiana. The worst part of all is that I was 100% dead sober, something the emergency room nurse was quick to confirm. Had I been drunk, this might be a great life lesson. Alas, I'm just clumsy.

Having surgery on one of your necessary ambulatory joints is not easy…especially when it's the livelihood of my new career. There is an upside, though, in the form of a serving-size chalky combination of Oxycodone and Tylenol – the coveted Percocet. Don't get me wrong, I'm not pulling a Lindsay Lohan here…it was entirely necessary. When a doctor deconstructs your wrist joint to dig out a cyst and the local numbing wears off 24 hours later, you're in a bad place. I felt like a newborn calf, struggling to navigate this cruel world with unsteady and unbalanced limbs, helpless to the elements and losing the ability to wash myself. Every three and a half hours, though, I was rescued from the throbbing pain and delivered to a world where black, silky ponies combed my hair with sunshine and unicorns adorned with crowns of jewels microwaved my Bagel Bites (both of whom might have actually been Steve…I still haven't determined dream vs. reality). I was happy and pain-free without a care in the world, thanks to the joys of modern pharmacology. I saw strange things while pill-popping, things that I wouldn't dare speak of aloud. Things that would make a heroin addict uncomfortable and a psychologist nervous. It was an interesting few days, and I'd like to think I'm a better person after going through it all.

I stayed in that narcotic-induced purgatory for several days, during which I developed an unhealthy addiction to daytime television. Those first few uncertain days post-surgery, where I was not only unable to complete basic life tasks but was often either fighting a migraine or hazy from the drugs, I struggled to develop a routine that would make me feel like a slightly less waste of flesh.

9:00am – First alarm goes off. Take pain pill and continue to snooze until iPhone no longer allows it.

10:05am – 10:15am – attempt to pull on elastic-waistband pajama pants and wide-sleeved t-shirt. This takes longer than I'm willing to admit.

10:15am – 11:00am – watch "Rachael Ray", all the while thinking of how much I don't like Rachael Ray.

11:00am – 12:00pm – my favorite time of the day – "The View"! Watch listlessly with mouth agape while they have the exact same argument they had the day before and Joy Behar gets fined by the FCC for calling someone a "bitch" during daytime television.

12:00pm – 3:00pm – kill time by either spacing out on the couch, watching "Bridezillas" or "I Didn't Know I Was Pregnant" and counting down the minutes until I can take my next pain pill.

3:00pm – 4:00pm – "Dr. Oz," my man. Learn about five new medical conditions that I didn't know were possible. Begin to become paranoid that I have five new medical conditions that I didn't know were possible.

4:00pm – 5:00pm – Take another pain pill, which helps me get through an hour of Oprah Winfrey talking about how generous she is and laughing uncontrollably (Percocet) at her antics whilst camping with her best friend, Gayle. She cooked sea bass on a campfire!! Oh Oprah…money has changed you.

5:00pm – 5:30pm – Think about how much I want Steve to come home from work. Call him five times to ask him what time he's coming home from work. Watch the local news and become paranoid because I live in a city with at least five murders and three apartment fires a day. News is a bummer…luckily I'm feeling good!

5:30pm – 6:00pm – After receiving the much-anticipated phone call that Steve is on his way home from work, attempt to struggle into a clean t-shirt, change socks and brush hair with one hand. When this doesn't work, wipe drool off face, gargle with Listerine and resume spot on couch.

6:00pm – 10:00pm – Spend the evening regaling Steve with stories of my daytime television friends. "Oh my God, then Elizabeth told Whoopi to shut up, and we were all cracking up!!" or "When Oprah told me that, I just had to believe it." Try to ignore the deep pity in his eyes, and knowingly accept the final pain pill of the day, which makes me stop dead in my tracks and fall into a restful, kooky dream-filled sleep.

This went on for a few days, until I was finally confident and strong enough to venture outside into the real world. A trip to the library, for example, became the highlight of my day, and I would plan my eating/sleeping/watching schedule around that one errand. I was soon able to visit with friends again, when the unexpected and dreaded happened. I was happy as a clam, hanging out at a friend's house eating pizza on a Friday night, when I looked down and…I had dripped pizza grease all over my cast. Needless to say, I felt like an irresponsible 10-year old boy and couldn't make eye contact with the nurse as she carefully cut off the padding a few days later. I might as well have spread dirt on it and tucked a few worms in there while I was at it. Pizza grease…on a 25-year-old woman's cast…unbelievable.

So here I am, recovering nicely and on-track for a fully healed and functional wrist, for the first time in five years. I resumed my normal work schedule, yet am still struggling to break free from the grips of daytime television. Every time I see a commercial for "The View" my heart hurts and the "good times" of those few days come pouring back in a nostalgic and bittersweet wave. The pain of surgery is already forgotten, but the joy of delusional one-sided friendship still exists. Thank you, Barbara, Whoopi, Joy, Elizabeth and Sherry for helping me through a hard time. Thank you. Then again…it was probably all just a Percocet dream…

Monday, 10/25/10 – Level 6 Day 20 (FINAL EXAM)

I looked to the wall on the right, seeking out the analog clock hanging from the wall. My glasses were so full of grease splatters and sticky fingerprints that I couldn't make out the black hands encased in the clear plastic face that ticked a mere fifteen feet from my station. I wiped my hands on my apron and pulled the frames from my face, right to left, releasing a small drip of sweat waiting to run down the crease of my nose. A quick swipe on a stained towel did the trick well enough for me to make out the time: 8:16 pm.

Monday, October 25^th at 8:16 in the evening. I never truly thought I would make it this far, this mythically obsessed-about evening in time when my fate would be permanently sealed. Sure, I spent hours upon hours fantasizing about it: what recipes I would get, how I would feel, what would go wrong. Yet I was never realistic with myself about the brevity of the exam, and what it meant to the past ten months and my future career. And here I was, a full two hours and sixteen minutes into one of the most important nights of my life and I was feeling…calm. Relaxed. Confident.

I was scheduled to serve the bass at 9:09 pm, so I took a deep breath, letting the hot air reach the deep corners of my lungs, while I surveyed my station. Student #A6: Bass with Sea Urchin Sauce and Green Apple Charlotte. Potatoes: roasted. Baby fennel: cooked. Pickled tomatoes: drained. My next dish, the Charlotte, was supposed to be served at 9:57 pm, so I surveyed my mental checklist again. Ladyfingers: Piped and baked. Charlotte: formed. Green apple Bavarian cream: cooked and molded. Red currant sauce: cooled and bottled. I felt my blood pressure drop, causing my head to feel light while my heart skipped a beat as I came to the best realization of the night…I was practically done. 8:16 pm and I was already on the home stretch.

Before I knew it, we were being swept down the concrete hallway in numerical order, past portraits of the school's distinguished faculty and towards the deafening sound that only a standing ovation can produce – a creak as the back of your legs push the chair behind you and scrape a dent in the wooden floor, a swish as the paper you were holding sways through the air and hits the tablecloth and the unmistakable clap as one fleshy palm of skin meets another in a calculated impact. I was met at the threshold of the room with a glass of chilled champagne and wide grins from no less than twenty of the city's most famous chefs and food professionals, congratulating us all on a most successful night. It was like the end of a mid-90s romantic comedy, played in slow motion as Prince Charming finally kisses the Princess, and you just know in your heart that they will live happily ever after.

According to the judges, my fish was cooked immaculately, my sauce was delicious and my Charlotte was picture-perfect. I let my eyes gloss over as they critiqued the other students, taking my exhausted brain to an open-eyed dream where I felt myself reaching, struggling then finally grasping an unnamed prize; a present; a want; an accomplishment. And then it was over, six hours had passed like six minutes, and we all headed to the local watering hole to celebrate and say our goodbyes.

The next afternoon, amongst our peers, friends and loved ones we each ceremoniously had the toque, the tall creased French chef's hat, placed on our heads and our Grand Diplomes handed to us in shining leather booklets. I was also given a silver French Culinary Institute lapel pin to adhere with pride on my chef's jacket as an indication that I was one of the students who graduated with distinction, with a cumulative GPA of above 95%.

While a large chapter of my life closes heavy and obvious like the cover of a dusty dictionary, I happily place it back on the shelf, cataloging the good with the bad on the back of my soul. I smooth my hair down, adjust my apron and reach for the next book to start a new story.

The prince got his girl. The cat got her mouse. And the chef got her toque. Happily ever after.

Friday, 10/22/10 – Level 6 Day 19 (Poissonnier)

My last day came and went quicker than I could say "fail," and before I knew it my class time at the French Culinary Institute was over. Done. Finito. Fin.

It's bittersweet; a strange mix of nostalgia for the excitement and thrill of the beginning, a fear of leaving my comfort zone and the sad realization that I might never see some of these people ever again. I am overjoyed at finally being able to reclaim my weeknights and to gain some sort of normalcy in my schedule. But then again, the definition of "normal" is always subjective.

Since we had some down time, we did basic prep for the final: pickling cherry tomatoes, layering a potato terrine and pureeing the mustard crust for the lamb loins. It's wonderful that so much of the annoying stuff will be done for us on the final, cutting down our list of To Dos drastically. Being the smarta$$ that I am, I approached chef and said, "Chef, what are the odds you'll cook our fish and meat for the final too?" Ha ha ha. Classic. "Jacques-leen, don't be stoopid. Five points off for asking dumb questions." Fair enough, I deserved that.

Speaking of nostalgia, below are a few of my favorite moments of culinary school, in no particular order and preferably set to Green Day's "Time of Your Life" (acceptable substitute would be "Because You Loved Me" by Celine Dion:

-The time I turned into a blood-thirsty, cackling vampire of a fishmonger when tasked with separating a fish carcass.

-The time I cried for a week when the Taco Bell around the corner closed.

-The time I got really nervous for the Level 1 final…which involved cutting vegetables! Seriously, Jackie? Seriously?

-The time I ate organs. Pat on the back.

-The lobster funeral.

-The time I returned to NYC after a beautiful weekend in Texas a mere two hours before starting the Midterm exam…and killing it!

-The time we broke down and smoked an entire suckling pig.

-The time I got permanent squid ink stains on my uniform, which still remain to this day.

-The time we put on the hugely successful "Street Food" buffet.

-The day I started my first real job in the culinary world.

-The day I became a real, bona fide New Yorker.

 

My wonderful husband, in a gesture of support and love, came to pick me up from school to walk me home. We had toyed around with plans of getting a drink, going for a slice of pizza or just walking around to celebrate my last class EVER, but we ended up just hanging around outside talking to my classmates. After several minutes of chatting, we decided to head home for the night, so we bundled our coats tighter, picked up our bags and headed down the small alley that leads to the subway. We were walking along, me babbling like Chatty Cathy and Steve quietly listening, when I glanced at two people huddling near the edge of the sidewalk and…IT WAS MY PARENTS!! They had just landed in NYC, flying in to surprise me for my graduation. Of course Steve knew about it, it's been planned for a month now, but I had absolutely no idea. I was blown away, and even asked for a few minutes to process what was happening. I couldn't believe that it was all planned for me, in support of me and just to see me graduate. Our plans for a low-key weekend were not disturbed, and we've spent as much time possible eating pizza, hanging out and venturing to Target for "essentials." I'm trying to do as much as possible to keep my mind off the task I face tomorrow night, but it's hard not to dread the unknown. I know my recipes, I know my procedures and I know proper kitchen protocol. I just don't know what's going to happen, and that terrifies the crap out of me.

At this time nine months ago I was encountering fois gras for the first time and making salads. Five months ago I was meticulously shearing off the burnt edges of all 50 apple slices on the top of an over-cooked apple tart in Level 3. A month ago I was taking the mock pastry final. Tomorrow night I'll be running around, plating dishes and sending out food to the judges. And this time Tuesday night I'll be Chef Jackie (which is what I'll request to be called at all times, naturally. Hey, I didn't struggle through these past ten months for nothing…) They say time flies when you're having fun. But in addition to that, time flies when you're finally doing what you were born to do.

Wednesday, 10/20/10 – Level 6 Day 18 (Poissonnier)

On our second-to-last night, we were feeling very confident and in control. It's amazing how far I've come in just the restaurant alone. I remember my first tour through Poissonnier, which happened to be my first four days in a restaurant EVER. It was scary, frantic and uncoordinated, and I was horridly unsure of myself and my skill. Now, as we near the end of Level 6, the last and final level of culinary school, cooking fish and plating the delicate sides seems like second nature to me, and I find myself mentally coaxing the diners to order my dishes so that I can enjoy practicing. I'm trying my hardest to memorize the recipes and components, but only having the opportunity to do each piece once has really been a hindrance. I'm preparing now to attend my last and final class, which luckily falls on a Friday night service, yet I can't help but let my fear for the final overshadow my joy at potentially (hopefully) graduating. It helps that I pass the wall of endless class pictures, taken years past at graduations where the toque is fresh on their heads and the joy of the day is visible on their faces. The hairstyles have changed, but I can look at those new chefs and say, "Hey, if they could do it, then I surely can!"

During a recent episode of one of my favorite shows, "How I Met Your Mother," the friends tell Robin that there are certain experiences every resident must endure to be considered a true New Yorker: stealing a taxi from someone who needs it more and killing a cockroach with your bare hands, to name a few. Sure, every New Yorker has his/her specific qualifications for what it takes to join their exclusive club, usually involving where your baseball loyalty lies, how many years you've lived in the boroughs and how obnoxious you are on a scale of 1-10. I've considered myself a New Yorker since the moment I crossed the George Washington Bridge in my parent's van right after college graduation, my entire life packed into unmarked boxes and suitcases. I feel like I've finally jumped through the last hoop and gathered the final trophy, though, now that I've experienced the last thing on my list of qualifications. I'm proud to announce that on Wednesday, October 20^th, 2010 a drug addict drooled on me on the subway. I almost felt honored, like I should shake his track-marked hand and look into his meth-riddled face and thank him. Thank you, kind sir, for helping me feel welcomed. I didn't have time to get grossed out or angry – visions of Mayor Bloomberg presenting me with a key to the city were running through my head. As I walked to work my head was taller, my shoulders were straighter and I felt enriched. It's not every day I'm defiled by a stranger in a public place, yet on those rare occasions I am eager to file it away in my brain under "Days I Felt Like a True New Yorker."

A very good friend of ours is branching out into the world of photography, and she's already done some amazing work. To commemorate our one year wedding anniversary, Laura offered to photograph us being cooky and awkward in Central Park last weekend, and she successfully captured the essence that is The Lindseys. Read more about Laura and see her beautiful work (as well as our photo shoot) at her blog:

http://chapaphotography.blogspot.com/

Monday, 10/18/10 – Level 6 Day 17 (Poissonnier)

In preparation for our final exam (I'm not even going to go there right now….), chef offered to host some last-minute study sessions for each of the stations, going over how much of each recipe we should prepare and what would likely already be done for us. He said it would start a half-hour before class, so all day at work I was speeding with the goal of leaving early to get to this essential study session. As always, I was running a little behind, so once I walked out the front door of work I bee-lined it to the nearest avenue, convincing myself that if I saw a taxi, I would take it, but if there wasn't a taxi readily available I would just take the subway and potentially be a few minutes late. Sure enough, there was no taxi (a sign from God that I need to save money), so I power-walked to the subway and hopped on a train. Sure, it's only one stop, but on the arriving end I have to walk a good three avenues and two blocks, so I was still concerned with my timing. I practically jumped off the train while it was still moving, ran up the stairs and continued my Olympic power walk through the tourist-infected streets of Chinatown, dodging strollers, ducking under gawkers and long-jumping over panhandlers. I got to school at 5:10pm, and ran up the stairs, throwing on my uniform faster than Superman. By the time I reached the main kitchen, though, something didn't look right. It was empty….one minute after the demo was supposed to start. I set my things down and frantically asked another chef where my chef was. "I think he's in the walk-in refrigerator…" Great…I'm the only one who showed up for the study session…extra points for me!! I tore open the door of the walk-in, and there stood chef, stunned into silence. "Chef, are we still having the demo? I can't seem to find anyone!" (Nice job passively pointing out that you're the only one on time, yet acting like you cared enough to look for others) "Jacques-leen, ze demo starts in feef-teen minutes. Relax." So it seems I pushed that street artist into oncoming traffic for no reason – I was early!

The study session turned out to be incredibly helpful, and I'm starting to feel a smidgen better about the impending final exam. I just can't believe I'm almost done with culinary school, and soon I'll be sitting at home with my husband watching "Gossip Girl" and "16 and Pregnant" on Monday and Wednesday nights, and might resume some form of a social life on Friday nights. It's unbelievable how adapted I've become over the last ten months to a schedule of working five days plus three nights a week. It was tough at first, but now it seems almost regular and expected. I'll be celebrating my freedom, that's for sure, by going to bed at 10pm every night and actually waking up on time the next morning. It's the small things in life, but no one ever said I can't still wear my chef's jacket at home.

Salmon with Port Wine Sauce, Fennel and Mascarpone Salad and Sweet Potato Puree

John Dory with a Sea Urchin/Cuttlefish Caviar Sauce, Spicy Pickled Cherry Tomatoes, Roasted Fingerling Potatoes and Baby Fennel