Not much in the way of excitement lately:
1) Yesterday, I was minding my own business, clarifying consommé (please don’t laugh), skimming away and dicing like a fiend, when I noticed that it smelled like smoke, but somehow that information never made it’s may from the murky depths of my mind in which vague perceptions reside to the more cognizant and actionable (we hope) part. Not a minute later this poor stuttering fellow of undetermined Asian origin starts gesticulating in my direction with alarming rapidity. I was confounded, absolutely confounded. I think he might actually have flipped me around (which, given his timidity and obvious fear of physical contact should impress upon you the gravity of the situation). It turns out that my notebook was on fire (yes, you guessed it, the one where I write down all the recipes, including the one I was working on). By the time I’d fetched it from the grasps of my pan, it was completely alight. With licking flames, I tell you. The chef wanted to be vexed, but I think he ended up wanting to give me a hug, for he was sporting an expression of “you unfortunate child of the world, whatever are we going to do with you?” Did I mention that I had scorched the notebook the previous day in his presence? I sort of patted it and kept on cooking, but apparently the fire was still raging, unbeknownst to me, for a good few minutes. Only when the chef had finally extinguished it did he come over, triumphantly indeed, to share this knowledge with me. What I want to know is how I managed to set fire to the bible of my current life twice in a row, and in a kitchen without gas burners? Yep, I produced fire from whence there was none. Perhaps I just have overly developed caveman skills? However dubious my position in the modern world, it is a comfort to me to know that I would have been extremely successful as a member of the Homo habilis genus. Come on, I know you’re turning green with envy.
2) Today, I arrived at my demonstration ON TIME!!! I believe I was actually glowing with pride, but whatever luminance I radiated was quickly dimmed by the following scene: As soon as I sat down and crossed my legs, the girl next to me told me to look at my shoe with the same secretive facial grimaces and knowing glances one quietly tells a friend about the hunchback across the street or the “developmentally challenged” kid around the corner. I was intrigued, to say the least. I looked down, and do you know what I found? There was a pair of my underwear dangling from my sneaker. Underwear! And the lacy kind! I thought stuff like that only happened in adolescent novels penned by authors with far too vivid imaginations. I am a mystery to myself. I wonder how long my underwear was there? I didn’t see it when I was biking, so at what point did it attach itself to my shoes? And how? I don’t trundle around with spare underwear in my bag. It’s just not standard practice in my life, so how on earth did it get there? Well, at least my panties are now well traveled, as is Tchae and most other things involved in my life. In fact, if I look upon the scenario in a benevolent light, I’m inclined to think that I provided this undergarment with a free voyage, a chance to see Paris. And after all, is it not entitled to the same enriching experiences I am? Oh, how selfless am I. Almost a Mother Theresa of sorts. Granted, my projects are smaller and my impact less widespread, but it is valuable work nonetheless.
3) It is the belief of my class that our interpreter was high today. Personally, my money’s on the twitching chef. Suspect, if you ask me.
Honestly, what kind of a life do I live?
Hello my little dumplings,
Tu me manque! It dawns on me that you do not, in fact, speak French, so when I spew French sayings you are not thinking “bilingual dynamism, what joy!” but rather “ummm….” Are I not amazing at wiggling my way into other people’s minds? Oh yes, a fine display indeed of the perceptive skills we’ve long discussed. Perfect.
My biking exploits are more fabulous by the day. I mean, you take my less-than-stellar sense of direction, faulty bikes, and throw in my checked chef pants, and you’ve really got something there (I now wear my pants to and from school, for it turns out that the terry-cloth covered velcro band is exceedingly comfortable to bike in). Ce matin, I was biking against the sanctioned direction of the traffic. This is, for your information (store it away with other super duper tidbits and factoids to impress people at bars and cocktail parties!) a fineable offense, and of course I ran into a group of policemen. Can you not feel the universe raining its love down on me? I sure can. One cop in particular came forward, with the obvious intention of being stern and aggressively reprimanding, but all he could do was look at my pants. Actually, he was visibly trying not to laugh out loud at my poor goofy self, and I must commend him for this incredible effort. Particularly because the intense concentration it required left him far too drained (I’m talking wiped, spent) to do anything other than pat me awkwardly, tell me it would be a damn shame if I were to die, and point me in the right direction. What a nice guy, and a gentleman to boot! Those pantaloons are rather vivid.
Here is what happened today. Thought you might get a kick out of it:
I made friends with one of the cleaning guys! Mission accomplished. He is Ghanaian, just as I told you I suspected. His name is George and he is wonderful. And, get this: he calls me “his queen.” “His queen,” or alternatively “his princess” or “his love.” I adore a man with variable affectionate nicknames. The cheeky bugger. He just came up to me and asked me if I was Brazilian. I must have been sporting a rather unseemly look of confusion in response to this, because he went on to explain that I remind him (in appearance) of a Brazilian girl that was at the school before. Joy unbounded!!! Just as I was despairing, too: I ended up having to explain my lineage to someone this morning and got the usual eyebrow raise when I revealed that I’m half French and half Brazilian, and then the customary look of utter deflation when they realize that, in actuality, I am just another Jewish girl. No exotic eye candy for you. Quelle misere! Ah, it’s a tough life.
In stark contrast to dear Georgey, there is the still nameless grump who putters around scowling at everyone. He just grunts and moans and though I croon to him in soothing tones of French (as much as one can schmooze when delivering dishes to another poor soul who has to clean them. It’s rather a horrendous position, to be sure. Gross, and certainly repulsive enough to rival the rickshaw situation we discussed). But I digress! The point is that I am lovely and polite to him, apologetic and smiley, and he simply tuts and shakes his head. And is exceedingly rude. Actually, he doesn’t speak French or English, and I don’t believe he’s speaking in his native tongue. He just spouts guttural noises and I somehow understand what he’s saying (it seems I may be the only one), but even in this sad stuttering communication his loathing and scorn are not lost.
I am the assistant this week, which means I must arrive at the crack of dawn minus half an hour. And then I must find the basket that contains the food for my class (which is in a downstairs kitchen swarming with Ghanaians and whose door bears the sign “No Entry.” I mean, come on. Who put that much effort into confusing us poor new students? Once retrieved I must check all the items, confer with my Taiwanese? partner assistant who speaks ZERO English but tries really hard and just hurls mispronounced syllables at me at a horrifyingly rapid pace, and try to get the new- fangled dumb waiter to somehow go to my floor, run upstairs like a red- faced loon, get the food, distribute it evenly among trays for everyone, and then set up my own cooking space. Piece of cake. The chefs have taken a real shine to me. One of them likes to crack mean jokes about the Asians to me, I suppose because I speak French, and has taken to coming up behind me and massaging my shoulders whilst I cook, sometimes while talking about his wife. This is very pleasant indeed, although it can make chopping somewhat complicated. Not to mention everyone in the class is rather skeeved out. And the chef today likes to gravitate mainly in the orbit of my cooking space, which is fine but also wildly disconcerting. The point of this is that strange amounts of attention are lavished on me, so that when I was trying to pack up to leave, the chef made me stand still, like a coat rack, and handed me my things one at a time. It went something like this: my knives (which live in a suitcase. A veritable suitcase!) slung around my neck, check; my notepad and recipe, check; my scale, check; my two packages of puff pastry, check; and finally my gigantic water bottle nestled into my neck. This took about five minutes, and just as I was happily striding out the door, the chef asks whom the assistant is. It is I, biensure. I communicate this to him and he tells me, pityingly, that I must return the food downstairs to that furnace of a kitchen! And do you know what I did? I yelled “Shit!” really loudly, which had the chef nearly peeing in his checked pants. Oh, what I wouldn’t give to see that! But it was quite amazing. In one moment my blustery, red-faced, frantic ill-preparedness had this entire stuffy establishment cracking up. Or stifling giggles, rather, since there is a sense of propriety to be maintained, après tout! Man oh man.
And off into Hades I descended! And then I biked home in the scorching heat (it had suddenly become spring) wearing an enormous winter jacket.
Groovy, no? Indeed. Write me! I love you more than I can say.
My grandmother’s magically shrinking dog (actually, the cause of this is not so mysterious or fascinating: she is simply in the throes of a violent aging process) is now completely blind. Honestly, I have not laughed so hard in ages. (Before you begin to crucify me for enjoying the decline of an animal into decrepitude, please understand that this evil creature terrorized me throughout my childhood. As a matter of fact, though she has absolutely no teeth she continues to attack me and even in my ripe old age she makes me quake in my boots- nope not literally.Not there yet. Evil. My grandmother touts her as being a pure bred dog of supreme lineage and show-dog potential that was given to her by her friend The Breeder; in reality Eram is a disgusting cross between a Pekinese (not the breed of which she is reputed to belong, mind you) and god-knows-what. I believe a stray must have impregnated one of the woman’s dogs, hence the “gift” to dear granny (no, I never call her this. Not even in kidding). She looks EXACTLY like a gremlin, you know, from the movie. Yes, go ahead, recoil from the computer screen in horror! And she’s as vile in temperament as she is in appearance). So, now that you understand my justification in mocking this repulsive thing, let me continue: She is wonderfully blind. As a dutiful granddaughter the burden falls on me to walk this monstrosity, so I opened the door to exit the apartment, but the poor thing is standing on the other side of the door, looking expectantly at the wall. Which set off a rather inconsiderate spell of hysterical cackling on my part. I get my kicks where I can! But then because I had to focus so much attention on this dog that seems to decline by the second, I was sort of dragging my dog along unintentionally. There are poles set up along the sidewalks to prevent cars from parking on them, and I dragged Tchae right into one. Or rather, she walked smack into it. She could easily have gone a little to the left or right in order to preserve some brain cells, but she did not. Hmmm. I worry about that one, I truly do. Honestly, the number of head injuries she’s sustained in her short life… it’s rather remarkable. Aren’t you glad you so know so much about my dog troubles? And I go on: Eram is also suffering from vague digestive ailments. My lovely grandmere has decided that in order to remedy this, she will feed the dog pasta. Has she NEVER watched Animal Planet? This is not going over so well. Not at all. The furry abomination has taken to leaving a trail of spaghetti (or better yet, wiggly noodles, when that suits my grandmother’s fancy) in her wake, which she burps up and vomits at frequent intervals. Pasta though, really? Honestly, my grandmother is so misinformed. Like the time I innocently suggested she brush the dog’s teeth and she explained to me that it is detrimental to clean a dog’s teeth too often. Oh, certainly. It must be because she adhered staunchly to this advice that her canine companion is currently in possession of ZERO teeth. Ugh and yikes to the max!!!
I shall leave you now. Obviously this post is atrociously (or magnificently) long, depending on how you choose to view it, but I don’t think it’s been without intent. It is necessary to observe and recount the small things in life. I hope y’all are doing splendidly well and that you take as much joy in life’s little treasures (just go with me on this one) as I do. A bientot!
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Tapenade, and Pine Nuts