Brand New Apartment, Brand New Life

New Apartment

This is a big step, for me, for him, for us. It’s extremely cliché; I know it. We signed a lease together and I’m going to write this post even though he’ll probably be embarrassed. However, since many of you out there don’t know who HE is, he can relax, knowing that the ones who do know won’t make fun of him for too long.
My man and I lived together for a few months out of necessity and, I’d have to wager, a bit of laziness on his part. Or, maybe it was his sneaky way of a test drive. Whatever it was, living together at my last place of abode led to us signing our first lease together about one month prior to this post. We’ve been officially moved-in together for about three weeks; I think it’s going well! We even had our first houseguests over, including one of our favorite couples ever over for a hilarious evening of food and wine. I made boeuf bourguignon a la Julia Child (because I can’t resist making a mention of her wonderful legacy) and he made the most wonderful salad. Of course, the walnuts were raw, yet still scrumptious because, as we discovered in media res, our oven wouldn’t heat up…

New Life

In other news, I’ve gotten what one can only call a promotion of sorts. It’s funny how getting a raise and promotion only means new (and more) work. At least that’s what I’ve observed in the movies! Ha! I’ve just gotten my first one of either sort. Although, I’m not sure if I can really say promotion, but my hours of work and play have dramatically changed and, as of this payday, so will the number of dollars in my direct deposit.

Looking Backward, Just for a moment

It’s amazing to think that it was three years ago to the day, I was fired from my first job in the city, for, essentially, not being trained properly. I still believe there were more motives than that at play, but who cares at this point? The only reason I even know that it happened is that I have a draft labeled March 22, 2014: “Being fired and moving on…Yes, I was just fired from my job yesterday.”

I’m not sure I even want to open the draft to read the rest…I can’t believe how different my life is now. I can’t believe that back then I could even begin to fathom that I was happy. I was not nearly as happy as I am now……

Took the time to read that draft. I’m amazed at how positive I was about being fired from a job I loved so much…Of course, that’s how my momma raised me!

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The Hundred Foot Journey

In The Hundred Foot Journey, a young chef gets the opportunity to help a restaurant get its second Michelin star. The end left me a) wanting to move to France, b) wanting to cook. Of course, I was feeling sick so I did not do either of those things, but I wanted to! I had my emotions torn between food and France as I do every time I see a movie about food. Food-themed movies are typically about French food because French food is THE classic, quintessential cuisine. It is dependent on the careful techniques developed to make food look AND taste amazing.

Although the father in The Hundred-Foot Journey argued that there is a classic aspect to all cuisines, French cuisine is definitely the one that chefs developed into a higher art form first. France is where the restaurant industry began although, the label of first restaurateur is apparently up for debate. Nevertheless, the technique of French cooking: knife skills, the feeling of when different meats are cooked properly, the balance, and sometimes, delicacy of the flavors is what makes the difference.

Food is Love

I’m not going to talk about anything I don’t know about because then I’d just be letting gas escape and I’m better at doing that through my ass, than through my mouth. And it’s funnier when I do it that way.

I do plan to cook my way through Julia Child’s cookbooks one of these days; I just need to deal with the multitude of things that are on my figurative plate right now, first. I realized today that I had not even renewed my car registration. I was almost a month late doing it, and the DMV sure penalized me for that mistake. Although, of course, had the lateness been on their part, they wouldn’t have given me a discount or anything like that.

I keep seeing all of these food-themed movies coming out in theaters lately and I’m so happy that people are getting into the slow food movement. And they all have romance tied in somehow because food is love, as most cultures will tell you. For example, my boyfriend’s mother is greek-american and she is always trying to feed everyone, including me. She taught her children that food is love too, so my boyfriend is also always trying to feed me. Food is love because it gives us the nutrients necessary for living but also it gives us mental sustenance, which comes from the flavors of our food. So when a food reminds you of your grandmother or your first love because of a spice or something, it’s echoing the love you feel and it becomes comfort food. Food that makes you feel really good even though those people may not be with you at the time.

Cooking itself is romantic, though, don’t you think? The act of preparing food for your loved ones is special because you know you’re treating them to really great food to show them that you care about them and about what they put into their bodies. Foods can literally be made with love.

Even when you are cooking for hundreds of strangers every day and being paid to do it, it still feels romantic, even though there may be a paradigm shift where the romance is with the food itself since you don’t know who is going to consume it. You really have to love slicing up hundreds of onions and julienning carrots to do this for your living.

I feel like I could write entire essays on the different topics I touched on in this entry, so if you want more on anything specific, please comment below. Be sure to subscribe!

Culinary School Aspirations and a Cat in my Lap

It’s been Eating Away at Me For Some Time Now

It’s taken me only two semesters of graduate school—aka $15,000 in loans—to decide that I’m not interested in getting a Master’s degree in English literature. I’ve finally decided to realize a dream that’s been roasting in my noggin’ for going on three years now. I want to go to culinary school. And I don’t mean just take a few classes. I want to do what Julia Child did and go to a FANCY culinary school. Not necessarily the world-famous Cordon Bleu, but still, somewhere prestigious would be nice. It would just be so delightful to me, as both an aspiring food writer/gourmet chef/fabulous baker.  I want to chop up onions the right way for hours every day until I master knife skills. I want to learn to make a pretty poached egg that doesn’t overcook on the inside. And I am willing to take out a huge loan in order to do it. I’d prefer to get a job to begin paying off my current loan, and then save up to pay for culinary school, but I’m not the patient sort.

And I’m sure that like my parents, boyfriend and best friend, you are secretly (or, as in the case of father and boyfriend, not so secretly) worried about my sanity in wanting to pursue such a venture. I know I would probably write it off as a pipe dream if I were them. But they’re all at least pretending to be supportive, which I dearly appreciate. Although if they ever tell me I’m crazy or dreaming too big, we all know I won’t listen anyway because who’s to say what I can or cannot accomplish? Only my cat Jane is allowed to say I’m crazy because only crazy knows crazy, right? Although of course as I write, she’s sleeping purrrrrrfectly quietly on my lap.

So what do you think?