'cause i love the way you say good morning, and you take me the way i am.

Do I have to let go?
Yeah...
Damn.

In the end, we never really talked it out, but I got my closure-- I think he was protecting himself.  He once told me his biggest fault was letting go of things too easily, but he clearly didn't do a good job of letting me go since he was holding me.  But we didn't talk it out... I was simply tired of being angry and upset at him.  I wanted to tell him as much, but I wanted to force his hand and make him talk to me first.

It started with a sheepish greeting in the pastry kitchen.
Hi.
I'm tired of being mad at you.
We made some small talk.
So, are we okay?
No.  We are not okay.
Well, at least we're on speaking terms-- I'll take that.

At some point, I foolishly thought I could handle talking to him about it.  He told me the feelings he needed to sort out didn't include loving me.  I returned his clothes and gave him what I was going to give him for Christmas.  I forgot about his toothbrush and I kept his black thermal shirt.  It ended with me calling him a terrible person.

In the following weeks, I barely spoke to him and I refused to eat in front of him until I finally hit what I call the starvation point-- I was dizzy and on the verge of passing out at any given moment.  I wanted him to suffer-- I wanted him to feel as much pain as I'd felt.  I wanted him to know that if I passed out on the line, it would be his fault... but I was pretty sure he'd forgotten about me, dropped me like a bad habit, moved on, and let go.  I slept in his shirt at night-- I told myself I was over it and that it was just because it was a warm shirt... but then, I knew better.

As my externship was drawing closer to an end, we hired two new people in the pastry department.  I was getting tired of being miserable all the time.  I was getting even more tired of my coworkers pointing out that I wasn't myself and asking if something was wrong, or if I was depressed.
Around the same time, my guilt trip started talking to me more often and we ended up meeting up... for a few days.  It wasn't a reconciliation, but I don't need one-- I'm not taking shit from him anymore and I told him as much.  I don't feel much for him and I definitely don't need him.  I'm not sure if I want him, or if I just want someone to sleep next to at night...  I'm fairly sure it's the latter.  Still though, I had fun-- I got mine.  In combination with the happy new faces, it was hard to come to work in a foul mood every day, so I made it a point to be normal toward everyone else, but him.  In the end, I decided it was much better to be miserable with him than miserable without him.
You know what's not a good place for the aluminum cups?
Sorry.  And then he gave me the saddest look.  I really am sorry.
Suddenly, I was pretty sure he wasn't just talking about putting the aluminum cup box on the freezer.
Ana, one of the new pastry girls, asked me what I was going to do after I finished up at Aquavit in a little over a week.  I told her I wasn't sure and whirled around, placing my hands on the freezer.
Michael, you want to go to the Met with me next Sunday?
He looked dumbstruck.  What?
Do you want to go to the Met with me next Sunday?
Um, sure!

After that, I noticed a renewed bounce in his step and he seemed generally much happier.  For the final week at Aquavit, things were awkwardly normal-- they weren't the same, but they were as close as they were going to get given the set of circumstances.  Friday should have been the last time I worked with him-- he was supposed to be off Saturday, so I asked him if he'd be at Papillon the following night to send me off in style, with booze.
Fuck yeah!

Saturday night was a blur of drinks and laughing far too much for the amount of alcohol in my system.  I can't remember what snide remark I made to him, but he spent a good portion of the night talking to other people while Andrea, Stephanie, and Lisette pushed me to eat and drink up.  Finally, 1.5 drinks later, I was ready to go home and I asked Michael if he was going to take care of himself and go home and sleep.
I might fall asleep in the subway station.
If you're going to fall asleep in random places, you might as well stay with me.
I didn't expect him to accept and offer to stumble home with me.  My buzzed mind tried to have a heart-to-heart, but I'm sure it didn't really work as well as my brain tried to make it work.
I thought you'd forgotten me.
No, of course not...
We kissed and made up.

In the end, I cancelled our date at the Met because of inclement weather and externship manual issues.  I told him I'd call him when I was closer to finishing up-- we could get some food and then go to Chef Adrienne's tree-trimming party.  After dinner in Koreatown, we made our way to the Upper West Side.  We stayed long enough to enjoy some homemade egg nog and ended up splitting a taxi.
68th and 1st.  My heart skipped a beat.  But stop at 68th and Lex first.  It resumed beating normally, albeit a little sadder.
I tried to think up a way to persuade him to stop by my apartment first before taking the subway home, but I couldn't think of anything.  Finally, I just got out of the cab with him at Lexington.
I wanted to say goodbye to you properly.
We walked into the subway station and he wished me luck.
Call me.
I will... at least for Christmas.  Was I trying to play coy?
He smiled sadly.  Call me.
We rescheduled our Met date for a later time-- whenever he has a free Sunday again-- and I confirmed his interest in a trip to Sweden in September.  I didn't want to let go-- I imagine that there are very few people in this world who would want to hang out with me after seeing my turbo bitch side, but he wanted me to keep in touch.  Those are the people worth hanging on to.
I suppose I'll hold on to his toothbrush for now, since he took his shirt back... and he may need it again.  We'll see.

Thanks, Michael.  You're the best!
You don't mean that...
I used to.

(I apologize for the lack of updates-- life keeps getting in the way.  I hope to catch up once I find my way out of my own personal externship hell.)

kate is teh awesome. that is all.

Can you not hate me if I tell you I don't think we should keep doing this?
Only if you don't hate me when I render you incapable of having sex, much less children.
Thank you for reaffirming my ability to repulse and repel men.  Thank you for leaving me completely alone in a city I despise after my ?-boyfriend had already done the same thing a few months ago.  Saying that I feel betrayed doesn't even begin to cover the gamut of feelings, so you'll have to pardon me if I can't accept your apology at this time, or ever.  You'll also have to pardon me if I feel the sudden compulsion to dash out into traffic, or walk around dark alleys at night alone.  Of course, I'm dramatic-- it takes a certain kind of person to date a coworker, and a married one at that.   A full pint of ice cream and sharp nails can only fix so much.
Now, the question is-- do I take the high road, or the low road?  To take the high road means pretending that nothing has happened one way or the other.  To take the low road means turning all our female coworkers against you and not speaking to you.  Seeing as my time at Aquavit is very limited, taking the low road is very tempting-- the high road is for people who intend to stick around.  With less than 12 hours to go before being at work, it would be easier to make a decision if I weren't so dehydrated from crying all night.

Her name is Crystal and although her family lives in Taiwan, she's Chinese.  She's a few inches shorter than I am and slighter as well.  Her hair is straight and comes down a little past her shoulders.  We have the same glasses frames and we're hung up on the same guy.

Is it shit?  She stepped out of the elevator and immediately wanted to know the state of the cleanliness of their apartment.
No, I cleaned.
It's shit, isn't it?  It had better be clean-- I'm emotionally exhausted.
How was your trip?
It was okay.  ...More than okay.
She started huffily toward the apartment and then stopped and whirled around.
Are you going somewhere?
I'm going to Massachusetts to see my sister for a few days.
Were you going to tell me?  She demanded information as if there was still something between them.

She is my unvoiced selfish and slightly psychotic desires-- the things I would have said if I were still 16 and going through PMS.

(These events happened some weeks ago, but I can't remember the exact date anymore...)

~*~

i went to my very first rock and roll concert today and almost fainted from the excitement.

Feeling bummed about the departure of the half of my family that came to visit for the weekend, I was glad to go out on a date with my favorite garde manger.  It is hard to believe that it has taken 22 years to finally see a band perform live.  After a detour through Chinatown, we finally located the Bowery Ballroom and had a drink.  First up was a Brooklyn band whose name I can't recall now.  The second band to play was Damon & Naomi-- they had a very folky feel to them and reminded me of Eisley.  Their cellist made a very dramatic entrance about a minute after Damon announced to us that she would be making a dramatic entrance shortly.  Helena is Swedish-- they're known for their dramatic entrances.  It was during their set that I began to feel queasy.  The room began to fade to black and I had to sit down momentarily.  Michael brought me a glass of ice water, helped me up the stairs, and found me a chair.  I was feeling better by the end of their set, but I still didn't feel up to standing without almost passing out again.  The final band to play was Boris and they were loud.  Extremely loud.  I think it will be a few days before my hearing returns to normal.  Many of their songs were in Japanese, which made for interesting listening.  However, it soon became clear that no matter how loud they were, or how interesting their lyrics, the lack of sleep from the week would lull me into a nodding off state.  It was a very educational and fun experience though.  Now, if I can just suppress the nausea and go to sleep, I'll be in good shape for work tomorrow.

Whenever Chef Johan asks what I did on my day off, I freeze up and have no response-- after all, who wants to tell a chef that you did nothing on your day off?  This time, however, I didn't want to recount the tale of my fight with the bathtub, so I shortened it.
I fixed the bathtub in my apartment.
Don't you have a boyfriend to fix your bathtub for you?
No.
You should date one of the Swedish boys-- they'll cook you dinner and fix your bathtub and you don't have to do anything.
As fantastic of a plan as that is, there are two flaws:
1) Chef Dubernard would disapprove.
2) My super complicated relationship status prevents the pursuing of any Swedish coworkers.  Of course, as irony dictates, I would pick a non-Swedish coworker to further confound things.

~*~

i just hope that when i'm proposed to, the one doing the proposing remembers that i don't like chocolate.

Pernilla and I helped another man propose today-- we squealed with delight as we put his dainty little engagement ring into a chocolate box (a box made of chocolate containing chocolates that Chef Adrienne made for the occasion).  Garde manger Michael was pretty nonplussed-- You guys are such girls.
The ring was presented with dessert during the seventh course of their tasting dinner.  As predicted there were tears and she said yes.  We toasted their new beginning as we toasted Kasper for making it through his 18 months at the restaurant.  To commemorate his last day, the girls of pastry presented him with our version of a smoragasbord plate-- miniature sized bread pudding, pot de creme, arctic circle, and mint chocolate mousse.  This might become the new "congratulations on making it through your last service" dessert.

1) The going rate of one of my quenelles of ice cream/sorbet is $2.50.  If I had a nickel for every lovely quenelle I sent out, I'd be able to buy a house by the end of extern.  No loans necessary.

2) There is a subcategory of the romance novel genre dedicated to romance novels that involve vampires, werewolves, ghosts, and such.  It's called "paranormal romance."

3) Whoever said that a bookstore is a great place to pick up people of the opposite sex with similar interests is a big liar-- I wandered around the math, engineering, science, computer, and financial planning sections of the closest Borders for half an hour and only encountered one other person.  She works there.
3a) Anyone who knows anything about me knows that I have a long standing dislike of math.  That being said, if they made "The Fabulous Fibonacci Numbers" into a paperback, I would be all over it like white on rice.

4) I fought with a clogged bathtub for 3 hours today-- I poured about 1.25 bottles of Drano into a half full tub of standing water only to realize that there was too much water for the Drano to work properly and that the leaking faucet would cause the tub to overflow before the Drano could act.  I bailed as much water as I could using a plastic tub that had been holding my toiletries up to that point... and then I went out and bought a second bottle of Drano.  I bailed out more water and then poured the Drano into the drain, leaving the plastic tub in the bathtub to catch the water from the leaking faucet so I could easily empty it into the sink.  Nearly an hour later, there was no change in the clog situation.  As the panic began to set in, Philip emerged from his room and I explained that the tub was clogged.  Oh, you see this?  You just have to pull it up-- sometimes, it turns itself and falls.  Apparently, the strange metal tube with a handle sticking out the top (think like a large syringe, or piston) next to the toilet controls the drain for the bathtub.  When you pull the handle up, the drain is open.  When the handle is lowered, the drain is closed.  Who was the brilliant jerk-off who came up with that design?

5) People still surprise me.  I'd forgotten that there are nice people in the world in addition to the jerks and stalkers I attract.  I must study this more.

6) The area above my right eye orbit still hurts when provoked (read: pushed on).  It's been over a month now since I received my first black eye from the Xerox machine.

7) I long to fill the empty drawer under my bed, but not with my belongings.

8) Somewhere in Connecticut, they're expecting it to snow within the next few weeks.  I'm about one cold shower away from turning on the air conditioning-- it should not be over 80 degrees in October.  And this humidity?  What the hell?

While en route to Aquavit to drop off some squeeze bottles for the pastry line two weeks ago, a private car driver shouted in my general direction, so I can only assume he was talking to me.
Ni hao ma!
For those of you who don't know, Mandarin Chinese has four accents and a "staccato."  Depending on what intonation you use while speaking, you could be saying very different things.  Let's look at the word "ma" for example.
1st accent: (noun) mother
2nd accent: (verb) to experience that pins and needles sensation when a body part falls asleep
3rd accent: (noun) horse
4th accent: (verb) to scold
staccato: (at the end of a sentence, it tags the sentence as a question)
In Mandarin, the phrase "ni hao ma" with a third accent "ni," a third accent "hao," and a staccato "ma" is the equivalent of "how's it going" in English.  When the phrase is spoken with a third accent "ni," a fourth accent "hao," and a first accent "ma," it suddenly becomes the phrase, "your telephone number."  When spoken by itself, the phrase asks the listener for their telephone number.  Okay, grammar lesson over.
So now the question is was he asking me how I was doing?  The answer to that being "okay."  Or was he asking for my number?  The answer to that being an indignant "cad!"

~*~

do you have to let go?
do i have to go home?

sometimes, it is okay for the answer to be no.

You subscribed to match.com??
Jie is one of my good childhood friends-- we used to be in the same Sunday afternoon Chinese class and then we attended the same high school.  She is the most level-headed person I know and one day, she is going to be my primary physician.  In the meantime, she's attending a med school in Chicago and apparently trying to find the "love of her life."  The way she sees it, she's hedging her bets-- I just re-allocated my entertainment funds-- instead of renting movies, or buying myself dinner, now somebody else takes me out to dinner and an opera!  Plus, the site has a guarantee that if you don't find love within the first six months, the next six are free.  That sounds more like the Jie I know-- logical to the point that it's almost cold and calculating.  The last time we spoke, she had been on numerous dates, but none of them had "swept her off her feet."  Those are her words.
It basically boils down to paying $120 for 12 months (honestly, how many people found true love within the first six months?) of match.com's basic services.  That breaks down to $10 a month.  To make that, all I have to do is forego lunch two days a month.  On the one hand, that's pretty doable.  On the other hand, I'd have to pay $120 up front and I don't really want to spend any more money this month at least.  However, that's not even the biggest problem with signing up with an online dating website-- I am still, for whatever reason, hung up on my jerk of a ?-boyfriend.  Is he an ex?  Is he a non?  Is he, or isn't he?  I don't know.  Is it cheating when he doesn't care about you anymore and you're just hanging on to a memory?  Am I shallow for wanting to be hold someone and be held back?  Why do I keep having dreams about... well, let's just say they involve a certain guy who has a girlfriend (rest assured-- I don't fight with girls over guys) and when I wake, I'm more miserable than ever because my subconscious is enjoying a better love life than the rest of me is.
I asked him if the ring he gave me meant anything to him anymore and he told me that all that mattered was what it meant to me.  On the one hand, it reminds me of what made me fall in love with him in the first place and the reasons why I still hold him close to me even though he pushes me away.  On the other hand, it's a crown of thorns for my finger-- it's a constant reminder of why I sleep alone every night and how he let me down.  So why can't I take it off and let someone put a bandage on my finger instead?

~*~

despair hangs like a dark cloud overhead.

If something terrible happened to someone you know, what would you do?  What if there was nothing you could do to help the situation?  I don't feel that it is my place to relate here what happened to my dear coworker, but if you would send him positive thoughts and energies, I'm sure he'd appreciate it.

After an exceptionally long night at the restaurant (the last ticket fired around 12:20 am), with no chance of catching the 1 am train back to Poughkeepsie, a stiff drink seemed like the most appropriate post-work option.  As I was leaving the building to check my messages, it didn't seem like anyone else was going to head to the bar just yet-- apparently, the key to going out is having as much beer as possibly prior to going in order to avoid paying for drinks-- so I sat outside in the freezing cold (have I mentioned how much I love this weather?  fall is the best season of the year) and decided that if any of them showed up before I finished chatting with (read: ranting about my day to) my Hyde Park roommate, then I'd go to Papillon.  Otherwise, I'd attempt to make my way home and avoid another battle with hissy cat ("hissy cat" being my new nickname for my apartmentmate's gray atrocity).  Just as I was about to give up, garde manger Michael showed up-- a stiff drink it would be!  When ten minutes had passed with no signs of our other coworkers, we decided to sit in the comfort of alcohol and a warm bar instead of outside in the freezing cold-- if they were going to the bar, they'd show up eventually we reasoned.
As per usual, I ordered a white russian and a plate of fries.  Another ten, fifteen minutes passed before the rest of the gang filed in.  Johan decided to skip ordering a drink-- I had one beer before coming here; two beers and I'm drunk!-- so he sat at a table with Michael and me while the others converged around the bar.  Shortly after that, Erik joined us and asked what we were talking about-- Work-- what else?  It's hard not to discuss work when the people you hang out with are the same people you work with.  Erik, who hates discussing work outside of work, decided to steer the conversation in another direction-- Let's talk about puppies!  We unanimously decided that we preferred cats.  I mentioned the fact that I was currently living with the devil in cat form-- He woke me three times this morning-- he sucks ass!  Erik was instantly intrigued-- Ooh!  He sucks ass?  Johan then revealed his secret desire-- I'd rather have a cat that sucks pussy.  Michael and I were puzzled, but Erik was on the ball-- Why?  So he can suck your pussy?  Shortly thereafter, it was decided that we should play some pool, but not before Erik dubbed our little group the "ass-sucking pussycats."  The costume?  Cat ears, whiskers, a cat tail, and a brown nose.  Johan would be the cheerleader/mascot.  Now we just need a jingle and a dance.  I get the feeling like I missed an exchange at some point during that conversation, but at the same time I'm pretty sure that I'm better off not knowing.
I ended up staying until 3:30 in the morning, watching several games of pool in which the Swedes kicked the Americans' asses.  There's something really amusing about listening to the Swedes coach each other in Swedish about how to make the shot-- a little to the left with a little overspin, but just a little (I would write it out in Swedish, but finding a way to put in the umlauts and stuff is more trouble than writing out a rough English translation)-- while the Americans taunted the Swedes about their jibbering and gnomish language.  Being thoroughly exhausted, I should have left earlier, but the alcohol in my system was convincing me that I was having a fantastic time and couldn't leave just yet.  By the time I decided to head out, it would probably have taken an equally long time to walk home as it would have taken to catch the subway.  I weighed my options carefully and opted to walk home-- not that getting to hold onto Michael's exceptionally comfy sweater if i walked home played any role in my decision...  I mean, I didn't want him to freeze on his way home, but he has wonderful taste in sweaters.  It was a lovely walk home despite the low temperature (I think it was in the 50's)-- the cold night air was refreshing and it helped me empty my mind of worrying thoughts, clearing my head.  It's just too bad that it got filled up again so damn fast.

Pernilla and I were firing what we thought was just another two-top when Lisa, one of the dining room servers, rushed in and asked if her table's dessert had gone out yet.  We pointed to the counter-- It's right there.  Why?  Lisa reached into her pocket and revealed a gorgeous diamond ring-- The guy at the table wanted me to put this in her dessert.  We squealed in delight as Lisa put it in the girlfriend's mint chocolate mousse.  When the desserts finally went out (there was a small hiccup when they left the guy's coffee brulee behind), Pernilla asked if I was engaged.  I think I basically was at one point, but now I think I'm closer to disengagement-- it's engagment's analog between dating someone and having your heart broken by them.  I suppose only I could become depressed helping someone achieve their ultimate love dream-- that's because I'm an expert at misery.

That's as far as my European soccer lesson got today.  We had a surprisingly large number of covers tonight-- 140 on the books between the cafe and dining room.  I have no idea how many walk-ins, but we had at least two, and they came in at 10:20, 10 minutes before the kitchen closed.  I should have been more prepared for the evening-- I watched garde manger go down around 7:30.  I'm not sure if maybe it's true that all the Swedes are genetically predisposed to knowing how to work all the stations at Aquavit, but Melker hopped on their line and helped them get out of the weeds.  Later, when Michael, the best garde manger ever, thanked Melker-- You saved my life-- Melker responded with something less hopeful-- You're welcome-- some day, I hope to take your life!  Perhaps that was an inner monologue that somehow crept out.  You know, we're going to be in the shits like garde manger in about half an hour.  That wasn't too auspicious either.
As predicted, pastry went down.  Twice.  Right when the tasting tables all decided to have their intermezzos, about 20 of the dining room and cafe tables decided to fire their desserts.  With nowhere to put new tickets, we had to let the trail of printer paper continue down the back of the window.  Erik came from the hot line and Tiffany, who had been there since 7 am and who was still prepping for garde manger, hopped on the line to bail us out.  With sous-chef Mike expediting, we somehow managed to get all the desserts out-- having four people in a space barely big enough for two, firing desserts for multiple tables with large counts should have been a recipe for disaster.  We finally made it to the eye of the storm about 45 minutes later-- You'd better stock up, because you're only halfway done-- there will be another shitstorm in a little while.  It turns out "a little while" means 15 minutes.  That's when pastry went down for the second time.  There was an 8-top that required an additional three PX desserts followed by a 7-top, followed by another 10 dining room and cafe tables.  Sous-chef Mike began expediting again as Erik hopped on the line a second time to bail us out.  After the second wave of desserts was over, it was just a matter of waiting out the last few tables.  The cafe finished around 10:45, leaving behind a large stack of Swedish pancakes from the day's special.  Celebratory pancakes all around!  There's a reason everyone loves pastry.  At 11 pm, it became a matter of waiting for the very last table.  We cleaned everything we could, basically taking down the line without messing with one container of each ice cream/sorbet and the dining room dessert sauce squeeze bottles.  Finally, at 11:50, we got the fire ticket-- one apple sorbet and one mint chocolate mousse: apart from the Humboldt Fog, they're the only two desserts on the dining room menu that wouldn't have required a quenelle of sorbet, or ice cream.  Of course, if we had started refilling the ice creams and sorbets before the ticket was sent to us, then they would have ordered an ice cream/sorbet selection plate.  Murphy's law, I guess.
As we were finally leaving, we ran into the new sous-chef, Leo.  Are you coming out with us tonight?  On a Thursday night?  What do I look like, an LAS student?  Oh wait...  It's Mike's last night-- everyone's there.  I suppose one drink couldn't hurt.  I was going to just have some Coke, but he somehow pursuaded me otherwise:

Jack and Coke?
No, just a Coke.
So, Jack and Coke then.

I managed to get him to order it weak, but even so I'm pretty sure it was a glass of J.D. with a shot of Coke and a little wedge of lime.  I drank about half an inch worth (out of a 5 inch glass) over an hour.  In my defense, it was vile tasting and I was drinking on a nearly empty stomach.  It didn't help that Johan and Melker kept egging me on-- If you want to go to Sweden, you'd better learn to drink!  Leo was also disappointed in my lack of progress, so when he left to take a phone call, I had Melker drink a little over half of my drink.  It's good for Sunday mornings-- you know, you wake up and then Jack and Coke!  It was about then that sous-chef Mike started avidly discussing the milk challenge.  I think it's going to be a girl who eventually finally does it.  Or a gay guy.  It's going to be either Pernilla or Erik-- I wouldn't bet against either of them.  I would consider giving it a go myself except for that little issue of being lactose intolerant...  That would just make for an unpleasant situation even if I didn't throw up after the challenge.
When the Bensonhurst boys started leaving, I went up to the bar and paid for my drink and the two double Jamesons Leo had ordered for sous-chef Mike-- after all, what kind of line cook wouldn't buy their sous-chef a parting drink?  After some buzzed mutual thanks, I finally pried myself out of sous-chef Mike's grasp and started for home.  I worry about the immediate future of Aquavit-- it's not that I lack faith in our other sous-chefs (which I do), but sous-chef Mike knew what was going on and he knew how to expedite.  The hot line guys can all cook and plate really well, but they're not leaders-- they're not expeditors.  You have to rely on the girls!  It is with this in mind that I feel inspired to become the best expeditor pastry has seen since Briar left the line two months ago.  With the season picking up again, it might happen sooner than I want it to.  Welcome to the fall.

~*~

today's shameless plug brought to you by starbucks and the food network.

If you walk into just about any Starbucks (at least the ones in Midtown) these days, you'll find displays featuring the co-owner and head chef of Aquavit, Marcus Samuelsson.  Apparently, when their powers combine, they produce a new line of coffee products.  More importantly though, you should be on the look out for Chef Marcus on the Food Network, when he teams up with sous-chef Mike to take on one of the Iron Chefs on Iron Chef America.  Rumor has it that he will be competing against Mario Batali-- he's leaving Food Network, but he also said in an interview that he will be filming for Iron Chef America all next week, which, amazingly enough, is when Chef Marcus will be filming.  Coincidence?  I guess we'll find out whenever the episode airs.

It's a restless night.  Unfortunately, NYC is only fun if you have friends and money-- going to a bar by oneself is just asking for trouble.  I could still go to the Papillon (the chosen watering hole of Aquavit), but my body is exhausted and still recovering from all its injuries.  On the bright side, I only look like I was beaten up and mugged on the subway instead of feeling like it in addition to looking like it.  My burn and surrounding skin wounds are healing up nicely (or rather, as nicely as is possible when I keep picking at them) and my xerox machine-induced blackeye looks like avant garde eyeshadow now.  Injuries aside, it would only be worth going to hang out with the coworkers I talk to on a fairly regular basis... or Max.
I can't quite wrap my head around this obsession-- I'm not even infatuated.  I know very little about him except that he drinks excessively and has a nasty tobacco habit (as do most of the Swedish boys, it seems).  I think (or at least I like to think) that sometimes I can see him watching me.  Perhaps I simply want to be desired after by a cute guy?  I don't think I want anything from Max.  After all, a certain someone might not be avoiding me, but telling me that I can keep the ring he gave me years ago-- that's fine-- hardly sounds like a pledge of undying love.  I guess I'm just supposed to wait until he misses me again-- I should probably grab a book... or ten.  Is it just sad that somehow that terribly phrased affimation fills me some hope?
As I listen to "Room Noises" on repeat for the seventh time tonight, I've come to realize that I will always associate this album with Max's last day, my inability to give him the going away present I'd folded the previous night (a 12-piece origami ball-- nothing super impressive), our last conversation-- Are you working pastry alone today?  Yup!-- my general disatisfaction with what's going on (or rather what's not happening) with my love life, and the fact that I'm alone in the city that never sleeps.  There is a sea of a eight million people just beyond my window-- why aren't I spending the evening with any of them?  Of course, the cut caused by today stings now, but provided I don't pick at it (i.e. attempt to get Max's contact information from one of the Bensonhurst boys via the justification that I need Justin's contact info from him), it'll just be another invisible scar.  Exit Max.

(Shameless plug: I was introduced to the band Eisley by Tiffany, the new temporary head of the pastry department, and now I can't stop listening to them.  You need to go investigate their music-- today's subject line comes from their song "Brightly Wound" on their album "Room Noises.")

A meatball filled with cheesecake, a pancake topped with a pile of whipped cream with a cookie hidden inside, a bizarre amuse bouche composed of a wheat bun, guacamole, a piece of tomato, cheesecake, and cilantro...  These are the latest ideas Melker has brainstormed and attempted to get garde manger Michael to ingest.  The last one almost worked-- Chef Mike wants you to try this-- it's the new amuse.  Nice.
It all started a few days ago when I was cutting mousse in the pastry kitchen.  Michael came in to grab something and, when he didn't find what he was looking for, snagged a mousse scrap from my cutting board-- I see-- that's what you really came in here for.  Michael was indignant-- I don't just come in here for desserts-- I come in for other things too... and to see you.  To prove his point (i.e. to spite me), he vowed not to eat dessert this week.  At family meal that afternoon, I noticed a small pile of mousse on his plate-- I just won't eat dessert for the rest of the week!  It is this vow that has incensed Melker and made him in turn vow to get Michael to eat a dessert item before the end of the week.  We had great confidence in the cheesecake-filled meatball, but alas it was intercepted by one of the hot line guys and thrown out.  With two days to go in the week, will we make Michael eat a dessert in time?

~*~

i'll have the piece of swedish ass.

Tomorrow is Max's last day-- he's trading up for an internship at a fancy upscale restaurant in Rome (you know, the one in Italy).  Two days ago, he set the record for the Aquavit Milk Challenge-- with the amount of milk the average Swede drinks at family meal, one would logically conclude that drinking a gallon of milk in 20 minutes would be easy for any Swede.  However, this is apparently not the case-- many a Swede has attempted the milk challenge only to fail.
I will miss Max-- not because we had a great friendship (which we don't-- we've only ever really talked once: when I was trailing, Max was making horseradish dumplings in the pastry kitchen while I was shaping Arctic tuiles and we were chatting until we were interrupted by Andrea's entrance into the pastry kitchen-- We were having a moment!  I'm pretty sure Max was just kidding around... or possibly half-assedly flirting.  I'm not really sure which-- relationship limbo has fried my ability to tell when men are being cute, creepy, or stupid; otherwise, Max has told me that my accent isn't bad for someone who isn't a native speaker of Swedish and then of course, I egged him on to take the milk challenge), but because he's strikingly cute and has a boisterous laugh.  Of course, I have no intention of telling him, or trying to make something out of nothing-- I'd rather him not know I enjoy superficial things about him.  Until the end of tomorrow, I'll just enjoy the view.

It starts off harmlessly enough as a queasy feeling in your stomach.  Then it progresses to black spots in your field of vision until everything starts going dark.  You might be saying something, but you aren't very coherent because you can't think and you can't hear what you're saying because your ears stopped working a second before.  That's when you start going down.  Up until this point, I have caught myself and sat down before I lost consciousness.  Of course, there's always a first time (and in this case, a second time as well) for everything.
The memory is kind of fuzzy, but I recall saying I would be okay if I just sat down for a bit as the room turned completely black.  In my head, I can hear someone laughing and I remember Rachel taking the small offset spatula out of my hand.  The next thing I knew, I was jolted to as I crumpled to the floor, hitting my back on the new pastry line freezer.  After a moment on the floor, Paul helped me into the elevator so I could sit in the office for a little bit.  As we walked down the hallway, the black spots showed up again-- oh geez, I hope we make it to the office before I black out again.  The next thing I knew, I had fallen face first into the Xerox machine in the booking office.  Two thoughts came to mind: 1) I hope I didn't break my glasses.  2) How did I end up here?  Shortly after Paul got me situated in the office in the chair next to the air conditioner, sous-chef Mike came downstairs-- since Aquavit's paying for it, we're going to send you to the hospital to get you checked out.  Luckily, one of the front of the house staff, Andrea, was able to take me to St. Vincent's Midtown Hospital.  Between crazy nurses-- Any urine?  Any pee pee yet?-- and strange conversations in the hallway-- Would you cover his thing?  I'm gay, I scratch-- it's a miracle they get anything done there.  One urine sample, two test tubes of blood, one EKG, and several hours later, the doctor told me what I already knew-- there's nothing wrong with you.  He recommended that I increase my fluid intake and follow up with my doctor.  Great.
The most disconcerting part about today's fainting spell is that I was trying to take care of myself for once-- I got extra sleep the previous night because I have a cold, I had breakfast and dinner, I was keeping hydrated for once...  All my previous fainting spells were quite obviously caused by lack of food/drink, so this one is truly an anomaly.  So what do I get for actually trying to do the right thing to get myself healthy again?  A sore spot on my left buttcheek and a massive and painful bruise above my right eye.  My face hurts.



That isn't avant-garde eyeshadow...  I never thought I'd get my first blackeye from a Xerox machine.

~*~

now i'm a cool asian dude.

Melker has donned a metal bowl and taped it to his head in an attempt to mimic a paddy hat.  He looks rather like a German soldier.  Today's battle: biscuits.  Melker has never made, or even eaten, a biscuit before in his life.  However, we're having a barbecue for family meal and pastry has offered to make biscuits for it.  Melker attacks with gusto-- misreading the recipe, he proceeds to dump 5 quarts of flour into the Hobart mixer before I stop him and remind him that one quart is four cups and that the recipe calls for 10 cups of flour.  After some over-enthusiastic kneading, he rolled the dough out too thin before cutting it.  Minor mishaps aside, the biscuits turned out pretty well.  They were a little bland, but that was probably because of something lacking in the original recipe rather than a shortcoming on Melker's behalf.  Thus Melker was dubbed king of biscuits and peace returned to the pastry kitchen once more.

Grocery shopping.  I didn't think I'd miss supermarkets-- with one every ten feet, I found the grocery stands of Canarsie to be quaint and fairly low priced.  Their one serious drawback is that they lack the selection of the supermarket.  Since moving to the Upper East Side, I've found that there is a 24-hour Food Emporium, which I conveniently enough walk past every night to get home from the 68th street stop.  Whoever placed it there is a genius.  There is nothing more soothing after a long day at the restaurant than perusing the air-conditioned grocery store while listening to Guns 'n' Roses.  Someone should make the aromatherapy candle, "produce aisle."

~*~

i have never seen anyone so excited by little boxes of cookies.

The person working the lunch shift is in charge of filling the giftboxes for that evening's dining room patrons.  What this really entails is stamping "Aquavit" onto a box, folding/constructing the box, putting a gold tissue (after it's been cut down to size) in the box, filling each box with five syrup cookies and five gingersnaps, and then closing the box.  It's a fairly straightforward, although tedious affair.  As I have only been working at the restaurant for a month, I don't find the boxes as loathesome as Rachel.  On the opposite side of the box love-hate spectrum is Melker-- Some mornings, I can't get up, but then I think, "Boxes!"  Shiny!  He has been known to say that if not for the boxes, he'd probably quit Aquavit and return to Sweden to be with his girlfriend.  When she comes to visit in a few months, I hope she comes out with us some night-- I want to meet her... and give her a box of cookies.

Just a few weeks ago, my chef berated Melker for not catching me almost sending a mint chocolate mousse to the cafe (it's a dining room dessert-- the two dining areas have different menus with a little overlap)-- You're in charge of the line.  She should be helping you-- she's just an extern!  This was the day after we'd had a kitchen staff meeting during which Chef Johan told us that externs should never be put in a position of actual responsibility-- they're still students!  Last week, chef had me run the lunch line solo twice.  Just this week, I've run the dinner line twice and the lunch line once.  Perhaps this extra responsibility went to my head because I mistook two boxes of frozen Italian meringues for two boxes of Arctic Circle goat cheese parfaits last night and as a result, ran the lunch line on one half a box of parfaits (half a box = about 30 desserts)...  This wouldn't be so bad (despite the fact that the Arctic Circle is in fact our signature dessert) because lunch wasn't tremendously busy, but we had a party of 20 today and almost half of them wanted an Arctic.  Yeah, that's a big whoops.  I think the only reason chef didn't ream me is because I only started doing inventory two days ago and, well, I'm just an extern.

~*~

i wouldn't normally do this sort of thing...*

But there are certain things that are bugging me right now:
1) What does it take to make someone care about you and your well-being?  What are the lengths I must go to?  Is the answer blowing in the god damned wind?
1a) Why do I care so much about someone who clearly doesn't give a tinker's cuss about me?  Should I spend more time caring about the people who actually reciprocate my caring?
1b) If someone's not sure about their Sunday plans, is it not permissible to pencil me in?  Should I be demanding time?  I mean, they let me down when I needed them in Brooklyn and I wasn't invited to their first house party.
2) My chef can yell at me, talk to me in a disappointed tone, scream... but she will never make me cry in front of her.  All it takes is a single phone call and I'm reduced to a puddle of sadness.  Is this proof that I am not emotionally invested in this job?  Or is it that I'm not emotionally invested in my chosen career path?
3) I have a fever... and the chills... and a headache... and general soreness all over my body.  I don't eat enough and I don't sleep enough.  I need someone who needs me and who wants to take care of me, especially right now because my head is muzzy and I've never felt more alone than I do right now.
4) Seriously, why do have to write essays during our externship?  I work 10-12 hours a day and I used to commute for 3 (now it's closer to a total of 45 minutes).  Even though I work 50-60 hours in a 5-day week and 60-70 in a 6-day week, I only get paid for 44 hours of work.  On top of that, we have $1.75 taken off our paycheck for each family meal for that 5, or 6 day week.  With two family meals a day (one of which I don't normally eat as I typically work the dinner shift; if you work the lunch shift, you have the opportunity to eat both), I actually get paid more when I work 5 days of the week instead of 6.  Maybe they should have an essay prompt about that, instead of FIFO and the history of the establishment.

Emotional distress + physical agony + mental misery = unmotivated puddle of sadness.

(*You get some sort of awesome prize if you know the name of the band that sings that song.  <rolls eyes> Without looking it up on Google.)

~*~

it's the final countdown!*

Whenever a member of the pastry staff begins tackling a prep project, my chef will walk over for a closer investigation.  Silently, she will walk away and continue observing from afar for 15 minutes, or however long it takes for the person to get nearly through the task if not finish it entirely, before walking back for a second examination.  You're doing it wrong-- you have to do it over again.  Sometimes, it's worse-- It's all fucked up!  Why she waits that long to tell a person they're messing up is beyond me.  My newest countertactic is to ask her for a demonstration before trying the task myself... that is, if I remember.  Most of the time, I forget until she walks over for the first inspection-- Does this look right?  Of course, that depends on me not being overconfident in believing that I know what I'm doing.
<Insert dramatic 80's music here.>  My chef is taking a vacation at the end of the month and then beginning work at the new African restaurant that Chef Marcus (the co-owner and head chef man of Aquavit Org.) is opening next month.  There will be a 10 day period during which Tiffany, one of the hot line cooks and a pastry line emeritus, will be taking over pastry.  After that, the new pastry chef will be training with my chef.  Upon hearing this news, my mantra-- It's only for a month!-- was replaced with-- Only another week!

(*Seriously, if you don't know who sings that song, I don't think we can be friends anymore.

Every new day brings proof that the world is much smaller than we believe it to be-- a few weeks ago, I found out sous-chef Brian's girlfriend works with my groupmate, Chelsea, at the Modern.  Since then, there has been an endless stream of complaining from Chelsea to me about Brian's girlfriend.  Likewise, Brian's girlfriend has been complaining about Chelsea to Brian.  When Brian and I spoke of this, we called a truce-- It's like some kind of weird rivalry... but we're okay, right?  Well, Brian, we were okay until you brought up my thing for Swedish men.  I'll admit I have a thing for tall blonde-haired, blue-eyed white guys... especially if they're of the Swedish persuasion (which is kind of funny because my cutest Swedish coworker isn't very tall and he has brown hair and brown eyes).  But then-- You know, I'm not Swedish, but I do have blonde hair and blue eyes.  And then he winked at me.  Luckily, we were in the middle of dinner service, so he didn't have time to linger, or he might have seen me shiver with a full blown case of the jibblies.  The guy has a girlfriend!  Also, even if I weren't in some sort of relationship limbo, I would never consider dating him because 1) he's an idiot and 2) he reminds me of a silly skeleton (I think it's the vacant expression in his eyes).  Brian, we were okay, but now I'm not so sure...

~*~

oh my god, what happened to your arm?

I should tape a note to my arm that tells the story, so I don't have to anymore-- a frying pan handle ripped open my arm while it was giving me a second degree burn and then the adhesive from the bandages that were covering my open wound aggravated my skin, so now my arm looks like an alien might burst forth from it at any given time.  The entire area that used to be covered by my wound dressings is inflamed-- I know this because the red inflamed part is a perfect rectangle around my burn.  The worst part is that the inflammation isn't exclusive to my burned arm-- this morning, while scrubbing my nightly chapstick application off, my lips blistered up for a moment.  I panicked for a moment, thinking I had five coldsores, but really it was inflamed bumps, like those on my arm.  Because I left them alone, they completely disappeared after an hour, or so.  Although, I'm still left with a certain tightness in my lips-- I guess I'll forego chapstick for the time being.  The biggest problem, however, is what to do with my arm-- should I just leave it alone?  Should I put ointment on it?  Should I be pissed at some non-existent deity for the fact that I seem destined to only burn in weird places?  My coworkers all have conventional burns on their forearms-- they're like the tattoos of the trade.  I, however, have unconventional burns on my upper arms, making me look like I got into a fight on the subway before getting to work.  You think this is bad?  You should see what I did to the other guy.  Luckily, my arm just made a decision regarding ointment/dressing for me-- the burn is bleeding and the area where skin was ripped off by my bandages is oozing pus.  I should probably see a doctor, shouldn't I?



The red part of the burn is the part that was bleeding.  The rectangle around it is the inflamed part (or rather, the entire region is inflamed and the red rectangle is just the border demarkation).  That darkish patch to the upper right is the area where my skin was ripped off by my bandages.

It was gray and drizzling as we drove into Brooklyn to pack up and move the contents of my Canarsie crapshack to my new flat on the Upper East Side of Manhattan.  It's a two-bedroom apartment in a six floor walk-up.  My new roommate rents out the second (smaller) bedroom and lives in the larger bedroom at the opposite end of the apartment.  The room is cozy (a.k.a. tiny), but the location is unbeatable as it is two 6 train stops away from work.  My other new roommate is a medium-sized Russian blue cat named Miki, who hisses and swipes at me when I come close to him-- it's alright if he comes near me, but if i come near him, he freaks out.  Hopefully, he'll warm up to me over the next four months.

Subtle (and sometimes not-so-subtle) jabs at a person usually.  However, I am pleased to report that I helped initiate two kitchen nicknames of the more innocent variety.
During dinner service, the runners keep two lists near the elevator-- one is for tables purchasing the tasting meal and the other is for regular dining room tables.  In a fit of boredom one night, i drew an angry muffin at the bottom of the tasting list.  Carangui, one of the runners, wrote his name next to the muffin and drew an arrow pointing to it.  Soon after, Rachel noticed-- Hey Cupcake, i need a runner to the bar!  Even sous-chef Mike picked up on it-- Hey Cupcake!  Carangui-cakes!  I need service over here!
Later on, while the other extern, Duncan, was working garde manger, sous-chef Mike told him to put the box of crayfish back into the refrigerator before finishing up the plate he was working on.  Mishearing him, Rachel and I turned to each other-- Did he just call him "Pumpkin?"  After spending the rest of the evening calling him Pumpkin, we found out that Pumpkin was actually Duncan's childhood nickname.  Doesn't that just warm your heart cockles?
Still later, when I went out with a group of coworkers (it was apparently a first-- they've never gotten an extern to go out with them) to the Papillon, the usual hang-out after work on Fridays and Saturdays, I discovered that my surly coworker Mark had the nickname "Bubbles."  I'm not sure what inspired that nickname as the only times I see him, he's usually grumbling to himself, or complaining bitterly about something.

~*~

it's crayfish week-- where are your hats?!

In years past, Aquavit had an all-you-can-eat crayfish option on the menu for one week of the year.  Because of the overwhelming appetites of several customers, they frugally decided to make the crayfish week menu option a set number of crayfish this year.  Usually, the kitchen staff wears special crayfish week hats for the duration of the week.  However, because we couldn't find them earlier, we only got to wear them for one day this year.  What were they?  Children's party hats with a balloon motif and elastic bands.  The front of the house staff were totally jealous.

(These events happened 8/17.)