I've heard you can read the complexity of someone's life just by looking at their key chain. The number of keys, attachments, etc. Here's mine.
And I'd say that pretty much sums it all up right now. I'm just missing my yoga key pass.
I’ve started to establish a routine. This is something I tend to do every time I move. I think I do it both consciously and not so consciously. My routine is what keeps me sane and also helps with homesickness. It’s difficult to move to a new place where you don’t know anyone. I’ve done it a few times now and I think moving to France has been the toughest. I completely underestimated the culture difference, as well as the language. Having had pretty good luck meeting new people and making friends in the past, I blew off any doubts. Even the worries brought up by others. “Whatever. I’ll be fine,” was my standard line that I told everyone (including myself).
So far. So good. I really can't stress how much I love this city. And my living situation couldn't be better (If only I had internet. But then again, maybe it's best I don't have it at home, it forces me out and about even more.) Anyway, let's go on a tour of my apartment.
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| La cuisine |
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| Another view of la cuisine. |
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| My living room. |
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| Super cute bathroom. |
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| Oh another from the kitchen. Something about this sink makes me love doing dishes. |
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| The entryway. |
I live right across from a high school. So more times than not I have to squeeze between two horny teenagers getting it on outside my door.
And then just outside is this beautiful city. This was one beautiful afternoon.
When I'm not enjoying my personal space or wandering around, I'm at work (that's what the whisk stands for on my keychain.)
At work I never know what I’m doing from one minute to the next, however my days usually begin the same way. When I walk in the kitchen after changing into my giant black pants and new not-so-flattering-really-smooches-my-hair down-and-makes-me-look-like-a-boy-when-I-take-it-off cap thingy, when that’s done, usually there’s an empty tarte waiting for me. And I’d say that 95 percent of the time, it’s for les quetches, which I still think are quince. I should really look that up. Man I cut a lot of quetches. My frirst week we were getting ready for winter. So that means preserving fruit. We cut up 150 kilos of quetches. That’s 330 pounds. By HAND. Have a look at what it did to my hands.
So after the quetches I usually do the tartelettes (4 fraise/strawberry - 4 framboise/raspberry) and one tarte fraise. So I scoop in the pastry cream and arrange my fruit accordingly. Then cover with the hot nappage. I’m not sure what they do differently to their nappage than I am used to from school, but this stuff gels up almost immediately and I’ve been having some issues with boogery tartes. Yeah. So then after the tartes, it’s a gamble as to what’s next. I always hope to avoid les sandwiches. I hate making the sandwiches. I really do. Chopping up chicken is not what I imagined myself doing in France. I don’t even do that at home. Today was kind of embarrassing. I had to hard-boil the eggs and was clueless. Honestly, I do this about once a year maybe. Like maybe at Easter. I think the head chef thought I was a total idiot, asking how long to cook and whatnot. But whatever. They seem to have a very particular method for every single thing they do here, so I was sure I’d mess up the eggs if I didn’t ask. I hate making the sandwiches. Although now I know how to make mayonnaise.
So after the sandwiches are done (hopefully by someone else), it’s a total surprise. Even when I’m doing something, I don’t always know what I’m doing. For instance last week, I was to make 3 dimensional teardrops out of praliné (a hazelnut/sugar mixture with kind of a grainy ganache texture). He said souree. That’s what I heard anyway. But I don’t know that word and I just shook my head and smiled. I had a whole platter of these things to do. Roll out the exact height, and then cut with a little cookie cutter ring to the proper amount. Then roll in a ball for just a second and then create a little point on the end. The head chef Jean showed me quick then watched me. Mine instantly melted in my hand and became a sticky unruly blob. It always looks easier than it is to do. This is a general rule I’ve come to understand. So anyway. I was making these little tear drop thingies and everyone that passed pointed and said, “oh sourees.” With each passerby I just smiled and nodded. Then grandpa, as I’ve come to call him (of course not to his face), came by and said the same. “Souree! Tu connais? (Do you know?)” I shook my head no. “Tu n’as pas dans Etats-Unis? (You don’t have in the United States)” No. I shook my head. “J’ai jamais vu. (I’ve never seen).” He looked at me like I was stupid and waved his hand in the air and walked off. He does this a lot with me. I continued working. I made an entire plaque of these things, like maybe 200 when Jean gave me toasted slivered almonds to add to each. He demonstrated again. He put two in off center, closer to the point and it all came clear. “For ears,” he said. AHHHHHHHH Souree means mouse! Ha! I was making little praliné mice all this time and didn’t know it. I get it now. Then I realized that I had just told Grandpa that I have never seen a mouse before, and that we definitely don’t have them in the United States. No wonder he thinks I’m stupid. So I finished the 200 little mice and smiled proudly at Jean. He smiled back and said “Two more plaques.”
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