The Runaway Cook

Snap! Whoa, oh shoot, you nearly fell asleep again. Ok so what was that sound? Snap! ohhhhh-hoo-ho, it's paint. Look at the ceiling over there, it's covered in the curling dandruff of old off-white-colored paint that seems to be randomly falling to the ground. Wow that last piece was pretty big, and it happened to land right next to that also "pretty big" bug in pacing in the crease where the clammy wall meets the dirty floor.

It’s 5:45am, I look at the time and pull a wisp of downy comforter up to my jaw. “Mmmmmmmm, I can sleep later.” I am relieved to tell myself this since on a class morning I’d be up by this point. I can rest for another hour and 15 minutes, because the orientation isn’t until 9:00 this morning. For a moment, the fear of sleeping through the alarm and missing this meeting invades my plush little bubble, but exhaustion swats that pesky bother way. Asleep again, until the familiar tones ring me awake again.

After some debate on what to wear, I leave the house in a small heap of putty-colored ruffles, dark denim, boots, and a creamy colored cardigan. Hair is, as usual, in appropriately messy vines of curls. I catch the bus, run to seven eleven, and snag some juice, gardettos, and one of the worst turkey sandwiches I’ve ever spent money to eat. Although I have about 20 minutes to spare, I rush, scarfing down the bread and meat as I take quickly paces long strides along the sidewalk. You see, I was a bit paranoid about being late for this meeting, since I absentmindedly didn’t set the alarm last week and missed the first one. (This is a make up meeting)

I’m the second one here. I sit on the left. In the second to the last row, two desks in, I make myself at home, find the spot were I stopped reading Lunch in Paris, and wait. The few students that trickle in the door, one by one, nearly systematically, fill in the right side. Eventually, three nonconformists brave it and find a seat on my side- thank God.

Finally, the lecture begins as this very pregnant woman, with black hair to her jaw, skin beginning to crinkle with age, and big brown eyes, starts to speak. For three hours we all are instructed that over seas: we will become depressed, we will probably get sick, it will be very dangerous over there. . . . . Oh! And if we die in another country, the school provides extra insurance so our remains can be brought back to the US. No lie, she said with all seriousness and no discomfort, “Be sure to share that with your parents.” Oh yeah, that’ll be the first think I tell them. That’s not scary at all right . . .ha! One moment she is telling us that this will be one of the best experiences of our life and the next she warns us that it will be terrible. Warnings are good, but at a certain point they seem to cause the very feelings they are meant to relieve.

After what seemed like a full day of class, we were let out. By this point, I felt pretty anxious about the whole trip, not just study abroad but all my travel plans. I felt like that honeymoon stage, that woman was talking about in her “culture shock” speech, was already over, and I haven’t even started the marriage yet. Okay, so maybe I’m being a little dramatic. But there are so many things to do and I only have a month to do them all in. After that, I have to be “ready” and just go.

In light of this deeper “oh sh**!” revelation, I was relieved that I had scheduled to meet with a friend, (I will be visiting in her while in Germany) and work on the "when’s and where’s" of our meeting up in July. Together we decided to do in depth searches and work on solidifying my traveling schedule. I searched out a bunch of information on the Eurorail, student ID cards, smaller towns by the big towns I plan on visiting, and finding hostiles in and around these cities. After that, my shoulders started to sink into a more normal position and my breathing regulated.

It was a long ride home after and even longer “morning”, of course by now it was nearly 3 o’clock. By the time I reached the apartment I was famished. With only a partial container of milk, a few eggs, odds and ends of spices and sauces and some old flimsy broccoli, so I decided to go to the market. Two stores, 24 blocks, and about 20 pounds of food later, I downed half a sleeve of Oreos and and a pint . . .of milk. Arms full of newly purchased and old ingredients I headed to the kitchen. Since someone had recently told me to watch Julie & Julia, I decided that watching it while I cook would be the perfect time to do it. I opened the laptop and began preparations for curry chicken, curry vegetables, brown rice, and black beans.

After loads of slicing, dicing, soaking, and toasting, the food was ready to eat. Unfortunately, I am an amateur curry-cook, a quality I hope to remedy this summer. Yet, it wasn’t just mediocre spice blends that made for the not-quite-right supper. No! The coconut milk I had gotten was somehow separated and didn’t mix right with the broth, leaving this weird grainy appearance (tasted and felt fine in the mouth- just looked icky). Then, on top of that, I hadn’t been able to soak my newly acquired black beans so they took forever. And, in my lack of time, I had to eat them a bit “al dente” . . . .daaa. At least the chicken was tender. And, when I say tender I mean that each muscle fiber was lusciously plump and moist, and so soft that the force that held together the thighs is no doubt one of the mysteries of life. It isn’t any wonder. After being bathed in a potent pool of cumin, coriander, fenugreek, turmeric, cinnamon, and nutmeg infused liquid, I’d probably be in the same juiced state.

Sigh . . . in the end, this was good food. The imperfections were just a confirmation that traveling to Thailand is going to be more than great, and not the sequel to Taken. At this point I am full, happy with the conclusion that yes, I love curry, no I can’t make it right yet, and yeah . . .I can do this.