I am visiting my family and I need a reality check.
I was holding my one-year-old nephew today. My [insane] sister uses cloth diapers, which I completely support environmentally and for the baby. I think it is a really good idea. However, when I was holding him today, she had neglected to put plastic pants over the diaper (this, I have learned, is a very common occurrence for her, like all day, everyday). He inevitably peed, and I suddenly realized that my TWO shirts were soaked in his urine. She LAUGHED; I became angry, and told her, "Why the hell don't you put some god damned plastic pants on your kid?" She proceeded to get angry with me then, blaming me for "talking to her in an inappropriate tone and manner" and for not EVER supporting her enough.

Please comment on this post: who is in the wrong here??? If I was over-reacting for getting peed on, please say so. Otherwise, I'll sleep better knowing that she has lost touch with reality.

It’s raining today, which is the best weather for the “day after.” I am just so sad that it’s all over. I love the people that I met and worked with at le Cordon Bleu, and I feel very lucky to have been able to go to school there.

Graduation was fantastic!!! The private club where it was held is amazingly beautiful, decorated in somewhat tamed down baroque. It made me feel very special to be honored in such a place. The chefs said really poignant things during the ceremony, like something to the effect of “If war is the fastest way to tear apart relations, then food is the most immediate way of bringing people together and touching the heart of the other.” Everyone who spoke mentioned how much they liked our group and how they will miss us. I think they really meant that. It didn’t feel like a formality, plus the French just don’t say that kind of thing without really meaning it. They are way too matter-of-fact for that.


After the ceremony, there was a cocktail reception, which was another fabulous way for us to get nostalgic. All of us are genuinely sad to leave one another. We have formed a really tight bond and work as a team (most of the time). We took lots of pictures and hugged and reminisced. It was impossible to end it, but when they physically pushed us out, it was for the best.

Five of us sans family or friends decided to take ourselves out for a very fancy dinner at La Table de Joel Robuchon. What a meal! We had our diplomas in tow and were still wearing our medals, so they asked us about them. All of a sudden, there was a special tasting menu for us and great wine was suggested. We were referred to as Mesdames et Monsieur les Chefs for the entire meal. The service was actually quite perfect- not too intrusive, but attentive and friendly without being obnoxious. The food was out of this world, definitely the best meal I have had in Paris hands down.

Amuse bouche: Fois gras mousse with a port reduction and Parmesan foam.
1st course: a “cocktail” of mint-seasoned Brittany spider crab atop sweet pea purée and langoustine gelée.
2nd course: Langoustines wrapped in crispy brik pastry with basil pesto.
3rd course (my favorite): John Dory filets atop tomato concassé with confit lime and basil pesto. (It was amazing how the same pesto could taste SO different with two different preparations. Plus the sommelier had picked this amazing white that just sang with the basil. It was an F.O.)
4th course: Fois gras stuffed quail with a soy/honey glaze and truffle mashed potatoes (no skimping on the truffle, either. Holy yum!)
5th: Dessert! They made us a lemon tart AND a chocolate caramel tart, served with this amazing chocolate-lime ice cream. Of course, there were homemade chocolate caramels as petit fours after, of which they brought us seconds AND thirds.

So we rolled out of there terribly full, but how could any of us say no to a “last” night of clubbing?? Even I who hates dancing (except if I have been VERY much over-served) was game. We stayed out trying not to let it end until the very wee hours. It was a better celebration than my college graduation, and I partied harder this time. Perhaps I’ve learned that these moments don’t come around all that often…

One last exam, one more sleepless night. All the fretting was for naught, though. I got into the exam and was totally…Zen, as the chef would say. I flowed from one sugar item to the next and was done early (again!). There was a tenuous moment when I was mounting the piece where I was only 50% sure it wouldn’t fall. I chose a risky and/or stupid design, but I was proud that I did it, because aesthetically pleasing or not, I wanted to be original. The piece never fell, and I was relieved when the chef began the grading.

And then I was sad. They did a little toast with champagne before we left, congratulating us on a job well done. I lamented the fact that I may never again make anything in those ill-equipped kitchens again, and probably will never work under the guidance of any of our chefs again. I felt proud, but sad. And tired. I wonder if my sculpture is still standing…

One down, one to go. It is amazing to me that the cuisine exam is over. There was all this build-up, all this stress and panic, and then those four hours passed so quickly and effortlessly that I felt almost cheated. Like there should have been a marching band when I was through plating. Or at least some confetti.

On Sunday, I woke felling…fine. I kept checking in with myself all day: how am I feeling? Any freak-outs coming on? No? Good. Then I made the obligatory Sunday call to the folks. Suddenly, it all became real. I immediately needed a Snickers bar. And anything else edible. I needed to review my planning. Were my knives sharp enough? What if we ran out of bowls? How can I be sure my meat’s cooked? I looked to my friends for solace, but I found that they had been panicking for much longer than I had, and that we were just bad company. I lay awake in bed weighing the merits of butter versus olive oil to coat my flan topping. I dreamed cooking through the exam probably four times before finally waking up at 5:30.

Even though my exam time wasn’t until 8:40, I was at school by 7:45. I was comforted to know I wasn’t the only one completely revved up on adrenaline. Jeremy was already at school when I got there, and his time was 10:10. But after drinking a cup of coffee and honing my knives (again), I went upstairs. The mood in the room was calm. The chef and out assistant had seen to it that there was plenty of everything we needed. I launched into my menu and never looked up. Sadly, I rushed a little. Everything was cooked and ready at 12, and I didn’t have to plate for another twenty minutes. It was tricky to keep everything warm. When I sliced my meat, I realized that I didn’t roll it well, and instead of a swirl of pesto throughout the slice, there was kind of a chunk in the middle (damn, it was perfect in the practice). The one area I overlooked in my planning was plating. I had no strategy for how I was going to get everything on the plates, and I ended up very harried and my plating suffered because of it. My adrenaline high also didn’t help: as I was saucing, I could hardly hold the spoon my hands were shaking so much.

And then it was over. The plates were gone before I could take a photo. My knives were washed, my basket put away, and I was in my street clothes before I could breathe. I stood outside of the school with a few of my classmates, all of us in a fog. It all came down to this. And here it is: finished.

The practice run for our cuisine exam went really well. All of us were very laid back and cool. I was pleased that I was done in four hours (the time we have for the exam) and that everything turned out exactly as I had imagined it (except that I did imagine the meat cooked to medium well, not rare as shown in the photo). The chef gave me some suggestions, so, if by chance I am calm enough to take pictures of my plates on Monday, things will look slightly different. I feel much more calm about the exam now- I know I can do it.

Oh yeah, on the plate you have a pesto roulade of veal atop a celery root and potato purée, served with ratatouille stuffed artichokes, spinach flan en croute, glazed zucchini, and a mushroom jus.

So tonight I had dinner with the de Brettevilles, the family whom I lived with when I studied abroad here. I hadn’t seen them in since May, so it was about time. I was happily surprised to find lots of the cousins there for dinner as well. They’re all very cool, witty people and they were all around often when I lived there. We were sitting around waiting for Diane (the younger daughter) and drinking our aperitifs, when Aude (the older daughter) said, “Oh, and just so you all know, Benoit (her boyfriend who was sitting right there) and I decided to get married next year.” I though she said this for my benefit and maybe for one or two other people’s who didn’t already know. Her announcement was met with, “Gee, that’s great,” and a mild discussion about when and where. I suddenly realized that was news to everyone, including her parents, and what I consider exciting and major event was treated SO nonchalantly. A few bisous, but that’s about it. That is how that family works: calm and cool, no ruffles. My family can’t even talk about breakfast cereal without a major emotional outpouring.

Our pastry exam is making a sugar sculpture in 5 hours. To do this, you cook sugar, water, glucose, and tartaric acid to somewhere between 315 and 330 degrees, add coloring, and let it cool about to about 200 degrees. Then you make stuff out of it.

So here is my 1st attempt at a sugar sculpture. Notice that I am not an artist. Sugar is extremely fragile and in the 5 and a half hours we worked on these I made about 12 flowers. These are the 3 that survived. I like the colors. The best thing the chef could say about it was, "You seem very happy with your work." Oh well. I have one more attempt before the final.

It’s the panic point: my cuisine final is one week from yesterday and my pastry final is one week from tomorrow. How did it come to this? How am I going to pull this off?

I have finalized my cuisine menu, and I am sticking to it. For two weeks, I have been reworking and “re-finalizing” my menu about 25 times a day. What if I fry the celery root? How about escallops of veal? Do I use the green beans or not? Sheesh. What I have decided upon is neither ground breaking or particularly creative, but I know I can execute it perfectly. I have been long out of the running for top 5, and right now all I need to do is pass. Terrible attitude, but I’ve got a passing dish. These judges are old, fat French men: they want something they know and something that is done right. I think it’s also important for the old goats that it is all soft and easy to chew (no joke here, I’ve seen these dudes and they are OLD). I’m not risking anything by making three sauces or by doing puff pastry. The kitchens at Cordon Bleu are way too unpredictable for that. Long live boring and unmemorable, but passable.

Sugar. How am I ever going to construct a sculpture in sugar? Currently, I am clocked in at twelve hours with my hands in the sugar. I will put in another twelve before the exam. It’s so fragile and I am a total bull in a china shop. When we were doing the blown sugar, the chef was like, “Where are your pieces?” And I was like, “There,” pointing to the shards of shattered sugar in my poubelle bowl. It’s okay: I’ve got poured sugar and the staining process (see photo) down. We’ll see how the practice test goes. Double sheesh.